Counting Dropping Heads
by Just Another Hell Raiser
Summary: 1555, England. When Bloody Mary's most trusted servant Earl Ciel Phantomhive is captured and enslaved by the leader of the Protestant rebels, Ciel thinks he'll know what to expect. He does not expect Sebastian Michaelis. AU
1. Impressions

**So this is the very first chapter of my very first story, tell me whatcha think, guys!**

Counting Dropping Heads

One: Impressions

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><p>"So much was closing in about the women who sat knitting, knitting, that they their very selves were closing in around a structure yet unbuilt, where they were to sit knitting, knitting, counting dropping heads."<p>

Charles Dickens

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><p>The Queen's Watchdog.<p>

A select few individuals knew his name, and even fewer knew his face. But they all knew twelve-year-old Ciel Phantomhive's title.

_The Queen's Watchdog. _

He was the one who did Queen Mary's dirty work, slaughtering hated Protestants and removing any royal opposition from the Queen's picture. He was quick, he was deadly, he was efficient. He did what he had to in order to make the Queen's whims a reality.

And he hated her.

_The Queen's Watchdog_.

She had tried to bend him and break him in the lowest of ways. He had clung to his hatred, his pain, the poisoned memories she'd birthed, let them fester, because his thirst for revenge was the life preserver that kept him sane and alive and unbroken. His hatred for the woman who had razed his soul reminded him that he had not surrendered to her, and that one day, when the opportunity presented itself, perhaps he would slaughter Bloody Mary as she had ordered him to slaughter her own enemies.

He would do it, one day.

But right now, he had a job to do.

It was early morning, and Earl Ciel Phantomhive, the Queen's Watchdog, was watching through a dark London ally with every intention of getting kidnapped. The buildings on either side of him were dark gray, as gloomy as the England sky above his head, casting eerie, sinister shadows that predators and fugitives were famous for taking full advantage of. The ground under his styled black leather boots was gravelly and filthy, but he paid it no mind as it became one with the soles of his shoes.

He heard what sounded like a signal – a pigeon's call – and the blue eye that was not covered by a black eye patch snapped to the dark passageway on his left. The autumn wind rustled his black-blue hair as he waited, eye narrowing in determination and something like annoyance.

When the arrow _wished _toward him, he was fully prepared, and simply tilted his head a fraction to keep the weapon from embedding itself into his skull. It rushed past him harmlessly. Two more came, and both were nearly as effective as the first. He smirked, and when he spoke aloud, his child's voice held an out-of-place cynicism, and, at the moment, amusement.

"And you have the nerve to take up archery with such horrid aim?"

Ciel began to make his way steadily down the dark passageway, dodging arrows as he went and allowing the sporadic frustrated grunts of the hidden archer to light the path to his destination.

Before long, Ciel was upon him. The man half-wrapped in shadows was tall, with long, bright red hair and predatory gold eyes that grew steadily more alarmed as the child half his height snatched the bow from his arms and threw it to the muddy ground, staring the man straight in the face without a trace of fear.

"W-who are you?" The man's voice trembled despite its smoothness of tone.

Best to make quick work of this. "Earl Ciel Phantomhive. By the order of our most honorable Queen of England, you are hereby under arrest for treason against the crown."

Just as Ciel had hoped, this yanked the man from his stunned hesitation, and he became aggressive and combative.

"I will be under the control of no one, especially not an insignificant little brat and his murdering Queen!" The man's face exhibited his obvious fury, and his fist flew forward. Ciel didn't even try to dodge it, and the lights went out.

It was all going according to plan.

* * *

><p>He regained awareness slowly. His name was Ciel Phantomhive, he was twelve years of age, he served the queen as her personal assassin, and he was currently lying on a wooden table in a forest, surrounded by tents and animal skin lean-to's with shabbily dressed people bustling in and out of them. He sat up slowly and winced. He tried to grab his throbbing head in his hands, but found them to be bound together at the wrists in front of him by course rope.<p>

He looked around with a guarded eye at the haggard people passing by his wooden table without a second glance at the individual perched atop it. He watched as they ignored him and went about their business, cleaning weapons and preparing food in hand-made cauldrons, working and chatting amongst one another in grave, intimate tones Ciel deemed hugely inappropriate for polite conversation. He was quickly filled with a certain detached triumph as he realized he must have been brought to the heart of the Mary's Protestant resistance.

"Queen's mutt!"

Several scruffy people looked on as Ciel turned his head and saw the red-haired archer stomping toward his table, disdain and disgust radiating from his stance and expression. He must have connected his name to the title.

"Stand!"

Ciel inched sluggishly toward the edge of the wood, feet reaching for the ground. After they found nothing but air, Ciel was thrust forward by a large hand on his back, tumbling from the table. His bound hands were unable to break his fall, and he held back a whimper as his face collided painfully with the gravelly forest floor.

"I said _stand,_ dog!"

Ciel refused to humor the man with a response and silently climbed to his feet, ignoring his pounding head and aching joints. He looked at the man with a gaze sparking with defiance and no small amount of arrogance. The red-haired archer seized him by the rope binding his wrists and yanked Ciel ahead of him, facing the direction from which the man had come, following with a rough push to the back of the head.

"Move, mutt!"

"Where are you taking me?" Ciel asked in a tone of off-hand curiosity as he took a step forward, then another, then another.

"Keep your mouth shut!" Ciel stopped walking and repeated his question.

"Where are you taking me?"

He knew the blow to the legs was coming before it came, and he did his best not to fall on his face again.

"KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT!"

The younger of the pair sighed quietly in annoyance before returning to his feet.

"Keep moving!" Ciel rolled his eyes, but resumed his walking again.

With the red-haired man close in his wake he trudged past huts and shelters and women preparing stews in pots for men who were off a ways mastering various silent weapons. At least they had the sense not to get themselves caught, Ciel mused, and felt a small amount of pride in facing a moderately competent opponent. A tiny smirk remained on his face before it was replaced with his customary glare as that damn man cuffed the back of his head again. He was going to kill this loud, belligerent, pathetic excuse for an archer after this was all over, he swore it.

"Halt, mutt!" Was the mongrel capable of only one volume?

They were facing a lager tent than the rest. The man grabbed his bound wrists and jerked them downward as if to make the captive's feet more adequately glue to the ground. "Stay here!"

The man's red hair whisked behind him as he disappeared behind the tent flap.

Ciel used the alone time to glance around, quickly determining the most effective escape routes between the huts before pinning his blue eye back ahead of him as the tent flap rustled and the red-head stormed out, grabbed him ("_Move, mutt!_") and dragged him from the gloomy England forest into the tent.

The interior was light and warm. Gold and scarlet blankets carpeted the floor, and the light from outside was magnified, making the tent walls glow. There were men scattered about the sides, all focused on a mahogany table in the center, where a stunning, tall, raven-haired young man leaned and indicated as he addressed the rest of them.

"Sir." The archer's voice was shockingly adoring in that one word, and Ciel almost blinked at the alteration in behavior. The black-haired man looked up from the makeshift desk, straightening as he caught sight of Ciel. Shocking crimson eyes narrowed, and Ciel instinctively glared at the man.

"I brought the queen's servant to you, just as you requested." The red-head's voice was pitifully complacent now, and Ciel's nose wrinkled in distaste as he realized this man must have held particular – _affections _for his leader. How unprofessional. He turned his gaze back to the red-eyed man and almost smirked when he saw his own expression mirrored onto that of this leader's. Ciel was obviously not the only one who thought so.

"Thank you, Grell. You may release your hold on him now."

"But, sir, what if – "

"– Grell, release him now. I wish to speak with him."

Ciel had not realized how tightly the red-haired man – who had a name, after all this time – had been latching onto his shoulder until the pressure on it was relieved, and he had to bit back a groan of satisfaction.

The black-haired man raised his eyes from the tow, addressing the tent's occupants. "Leave us, please."

The man all shuffled from the tent accordingly, Grell doing do not without one last longing glance at the tall man with red eyes. Ciel felt his nose wrinkle once again.

When the room was void of all but Ciel and the leader, the former resumed his glaring. The leader, however, allowed an unsettling grin to spread across his lips as he motioned for Ciel to approach the mahogany desk. Ciel did so with his chin tilted defiantly upward. _I will not bow to you._ The man's smile widened and his eyes flashed, reminding Ciel of freshly-spilt blood on cold pavement.

_Yes, you will._

"So Earl Phantomhive. The Queen's Watchdog. What brings you to my realm?"

Ciel scowled. "You have no realm, rebel. My loyalty to the most honored and revered queen of England guided me here, to reclaim what is rightfully hers."

That smile never left the man's face, and Ciel refused to be unnerved by it, hardening his own stare.

"How can you claim that I possess no realm, rule over no subjects, when I am deemed, by the _revered_ queen herself, enough of a threat to the crown that the queen's own mutt was sent after me?"

"You have seized power you never once had a right to, and you have besmirched the name of England's glorious sovereign. For that you deserve no less than death."

His smile widened a fraction, and Ciel wondered how someone such as him could smile so freely. "If I truly deserved to die, in the eyes of our Almighty Sovereign, would I not have been smited or slaughtered long before this day?"

"The will of God is acted out through the loyal human subjects who serve him."

"And you are the holy servant, in this case?"

That _smile_…

"The queen is the servant of God, and I am a servant of the queen."

The red eyes narrowed, but the smile remained fixed firmly in place. "What makes you so sure that Queen Mary act in accordance with God's will?"

The blue eye narrowed as well, and there was only a scowl on Ciel's face. "What do you wish to gain from holding a conversation of this nature with me, the queen's most loyal ally?"

The man leaned in from the other side of the table until their faces were a scarce few inches apart. Ciel did not back up, even as the man opened his mouth to speak in a low, almost seductive tone.

"What do I have to gain? Child, if you commit the atrocities you do in the name of the _queen_, I can only imagine what an ally you would make for an individual to whom you were _actually _loyal."

It took a lot to catch Ciel Phantomhive off-guard; he was famous among friends and foes for his unwavering reserve and stellar poker face. So when his visible blue eye widened and he gasped almost imperceptibly, it was no great wonder that the leader's awful smile stretched wider than ever before. The man leaned back and stood up straight, sauntering around the table to look down at the shaken Ciel with nothing separating them but politics.

"My name is Sebastian Michaelis, leader of the Protestant rebels. As of this moment, I deem you a prisoner of war. You are to be my personal servant and remain at my side unless ordered otherwise."

The preposterous edict was more than enough to snap Ciel from his shock, and outrage overflowed in his veins.

"There is no way in _hell_ –"

"And if you disobey me in any given instance, I will kill you."

"If you _think_, even for a _moment_, that I will simply –"

"My will _shall_ be done, Ciel Phantomhive. I am sparing your life when many in my place would have cut you down already. In return for my grace, you will be my servant."

The smile never left the face of Sebastian Michealis, and Ciel refused to be moved.


	2. Purging

**Just for clarification's sake, I'm going to explicitly inform you - this story is not meant to be historically accurrate. I'm intentionally taking what little I know from this time period and I'm rewriting history as I would have liked it to happen, had these characters been present. If you're bothered by this type of approach, I suggest you watch something like Inglorious Basterds, I'm sure you'll warm up to the idea real quick (fuckin' love that movie).**

**On with the story!**

Counting Dropping Heads

Two: Purging

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><p>"A rumor just lived in the village – had a faint and bare existence there, as its people did – that when the knife struck home, the faces changed, from faces of pride to faces of anger and pain."<p>

Charles Dickens

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><p><em>Protestantism is heresy! Its followers are demons and devils!<em>

- A whip, a crack, peeling flesh –

_You will listen to God! Heed the not the lies of false prophets, sinner, or be damned to eternal hellfire! _

- a poker, the sizzle of charred skin –

_Damned to eternal hellfire!_

- a thousand fists, a thousand feet, all raining down –

_Eternal hellfire!_

- fists and feet and the snap and crunch of bones –

_Hellfire! _

- whips and knives and pokers and fists and nowhere to run –

_Fire!_

- agony and frantic desperation and _nonononopleasenomore_ –

_FIRE!_

- a burning house, burning, burning, burningburningburning –

Ciel's eyes snapped open and he made not a sound. He sat up slowly, remembering as he did so that he was now a servant of the Protestant leader, that his wrists were still bound – and by this time, chafing a fair amount – and that he was currently sitting ramrod straight in a pile of soft blankets and animal skins that served as a servant's bed, in the same tent as Michaelis, who was currently splayed silently out on his cot on the other side of the small space. Ciel looked down at the sheets surrounding him and was reminded of a harem's bad. He shuddered before tossing the thought aside.

He stared into the darkness of the opposite tent wall as he contemplated how he would accomplish his job in such a fix. He could easily escape this very moment, his _master_ – hate boiled in his veins at the very thought – none the wiser, but that would not crush the Protestants.

It was necessary for him to be in two places at once, really. If he ran away back to the Queen's side, the enemy would move their base and Mary's men would find nothing but abandoned huts and left-over table scraps. If he stayed, the Queen's men would have no one to inform them of the location.

What he needed to do – though the thought of lowering himself to servitude made his skin crawl – was wait until Michaelis trusted him enough to order him on errands. If he could leave camp without the base relocating, he'd have this thing in the bag.

All he had to do was play the humble servant for a while – _great god, _the _thought _– and he would save all of England. It was worth it.

Of course, as Michaelis rolled over to face him, opening his red eyes leisurely, Ciel had to acknowledge that is would be – dare he say it – a _challenge._

"My my, little servant already conspiring against me? You don't waste time, dog."

"You will not address me by such derogatory terms."

Michaelis sat up, the smile growing on his face like a tumor. "I will address you however I wish, prisoner of war."

Ciel said nothing, but his visible eye communicated malice and defiance, because Michealis would _not_ win.

"Today you will be at my side as I form plans of attack against the Crown and discuss strategies with my men."

Ciel sneered, almost tempted to laugh at this man's idiocy. "Do you think it wise to form battle plans in front of the very enemy you hope to defeat?"

That trademark smile never strayed as Michaelis rose from his cot and began to dress. "I will not allow you to wander from my sight, dear servant. And worry not, I will make quite sure that you will see nothing and hear nothing, and therefore will be able to _speak_ nothing should you ever escape to your queen." He donned a black tailcoat as he approached Ciel and bent down so they were face to face – once again – before speaking in a low whisper. "And I assure you, little servant, you will not escape me."

He straightened and his expression turned cold. "Now get changed, I will not be kept waiting."

Ciel looked down at the blue wool coat that he had not removed the night before. "I have nothing to change _into_."

"Well," Michaelis said, not missing a beat, "we'll just have to wear this today then, won't we?"

The condescending tone made Ciel bristle, and he barely restrained himself from striking this arrogant bastard.

Michaelis' smile widened. "Already learning to control yourself in the face of your master, little one? You do catch on quickly, I must say."

With that, he turned and vacated the tent, leaving a fuming Ciel with the humiliating obligation to follow after him. Like a _dog_.

He hated this man.

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><p>He felt a nudge from his left and did his best to scowl in that direction. He heard the rumble of a chuckle and scowled more, in the more general direction of <em>everywhere<em> this time, owing to the fact that he was incapable of determining the position of the offending chuckler.

Ciel thought he'd hated that tall, black-haired, blood-eyed demon of a man before. He hadn't had a clue.

After _humbly_ following after his master like the good little _servant_ he was, the bastard Michaelis had tied a blindfold over _both_ his eyes, and had shoved stoppers into his ears, leaving him blind and deaf as the good _master_ led him with a sadistic hand on the back to the command tent. Michaelis – Ciel assumed – had gotten himself comfortable at his mahogany table before pulling Ciel's bound wrists down to make him kneel at his _master's_ feet.

Now, words could not express the burning hatred Ciel harbored for this man.

After a few hours of silent, undisturbed fuming, Ciel had felt the footsteps of several large men entering the tent as Michaelis prepared to discuss strategy and probably terrorist attacks. The men in the room had quickly grown fond of teasing and confusing Ciel, who could do nothing to defend himself except scowl about him and growl with all his twelve-year-old ferocity. It had made for one of the longest half-hours of his life.

He heard nothing, he saw nothing. He felt a shove from behind, and turned abruptly to growl. He felt the rumble of several men laughing, and several disembodied fingers poked him painfully from all sides. He attempted to bite one, and was unsuccessful.

He was completely vulnerable to these large, malicious enemies, and he could do nothing. He could neither anticipate nor defend. If he had been the type of child to cry, he would have.

Michaelis carried on with the meeting, and the men carried on with the taunting, and Ciel carried on with the scowling. All this carried on for an hour or so until the council was adjourned for the sake of lunch. Ciel felt the heavy footsteps as the men left the tent, felt Sebastian rise from his seat beside him, and felt the blindfold and stoppers be removed. Ciel opened his uncovered eye, making sure to grace this bastard with a glare that was known to give the most heartless killers nightmares. Michaelis, the bastard, just quirked his lips up into a smile.

"Have fun, little one?"

Ciel glared – some more.

"It is lunchtime, and I would hate to be late." He turned and walked out, leaving Ciel to follow. Again.

How was he going to survive this?

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><p>"Bard I hate to crush your – sensitive spirits, but this soup is <em>awful<em>."

"Sot it! I spent a right long time on this, so eat up!"

"You probably should have put oregano in the soup, Bard, that would have done away with that rather particular taste in it, would it've not?"

"Shut it, Finni, make your own if you're so fuckin' keen on correctin' mine!"

"Aw come on, constructive criticism is needed for the makin' of any masterpiece, it is."

"This is masterpiece enough, I don't need you lot talkin' down to me!"

The stew was indeed awful, but Ciel hadn't eaten in a very long time. His portion was tiny compared to all the rebels', and he'd had to remind himself that Michaelis _had_ chosen to feed him, which was something of a remarkable courtesy. He had even removed the rope from his wrists. However, his portion was still tiny, and he had gobbled it down – despite its being honestly horrible – before Michaelis had swallowed his third mouthful.

He was then left with nothing to distract him, and he was unable to keep from drowning in the humiliation of sitting on his knees, in the dirt and gravel at Michaelis' feet while his _master_ lounged comfortably on a log with the other revolutionaries, laughing and joining in on the fun of human camaraderie. The idea disgusted him a little, but even it was not enough to cut through the thick haze of embarrassment and vulnerability that threatened to pull him under. He was a distinguished aristocrat, a noble, and yet here he was, kneeling in filth at this peasant's feet.

But he made sure to keep his chin firmly pointed upwards, and his eye emotionless.

"Seh, 'oo is that little lad you got there?" the one named Bard blurted. Ciel felt like sinking into the dirt and gravel under his knees, and his head threatened to lower itself. _Someone please just put a bullet in my brain._

"This is my new servant, Bard. He is famous for his acts committed in the queen's name, and I felt he would be the perfect prisoner of war."

""Ee's famous? Wot's his name?"

_Nonononononononono _–

"Ciel Phantomhive."

The others blanched, mouths agape.

"That's the _Queen's Watch Dog_? But he's just a little boy…" After a moment, the woman with a shock of red hair laughed a bit. "OH, you're being funny seh, you had me fooled for a minute there, yes…may we ask his real name now, seh?"

"That is his real name, you dunces. The Ciel Phantomhive is before you, obeying my orders as any proper servant would. His appearance and young age are often concealed from the common folk, so that the queen might maintain that image of a loyal, deadly brute for him. "

After a few potent moments of receiving stares from the revolutionaries before him, Ciel was more than ready for Michaelis to complete his stew. He felt his face even heat up and rage nearly overcome him as he heard the young blond man – Finni – mutter "so cute" to the others. Ciel wished he was back in the tent with those perverse men. _No one_ called Earl Ciel Phantomhive _cute_ and lived.

It seemed that Michaelis was deliberately taking his sweet time in savoring his horribly prepared soup; it was nearly an hour before the bastard announced to his subordinates that he must return to his work. Ciel remained obstinately in his crouched position as Michaelis stood and handed his wooden bowl back to Bard. Michealis began making his way in the direction of the command tent, and Ciel did not move.

He thought for a moment that perhaps Michealis had left him – whatever that would mean – and then a terrific pain exploded on the back of his head, launching him forward to his hands and knees. He heard the clatter of gravel resettling itself and felt the back of his agonized head, his hand returning sticky and red with blood.

_Fucking bastard threw a ROCK at me!_

"I do not like to be kept waiting, dog. Next time, I expect you to follow me without a word."

Ciel saw stars as he stood up, stumbling to Michaelis' side, too dazed to even throw him a proper scowl.

"I will not tell you again, understood?"

Regaining his awareness, Ciel refused to nod. He hardened up a glare, and found satisfaction in the total lack of a smile on his master's face, this time around.


	3. Conditioning

**Thanks to all those who reviewed, you made my day! :D Oh, and whoever can name the Dickens work all my quotes are coming from gets a whole batch of virtual cookies.**

Counting Dropping Heads

Three: Conditioning

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><p>"When you go to Rome, do as Rome does. Rome will be an ugly customer to you, if you don't. <em>I'm<em> your Rome, you know."

Charles Dickens

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><p>"Load it – like so."<p>

"Er –"

"No, more steady."

"Like th –"

"Yes, that's better. But it's got to be quicker."

"How –"

"Practice and experience, my friend."

Ciel had a headache. And here he was, watching Michaelis teach revolutionaries to shoot.

BANG!

Ah. So that's what it felt like. To have one's brain explode.

"No Johnson, you must mind the kick. Keep your chest and shoulders firm."

BANG!

Ciel was going to die.

He was kneeling on the ground – _again _– off to the side of the row of twenty rogue soldiers who couldn't even load a musket.

Not that it was worth it at any rate. Muskets were loud and difficult to conceal and horrible for direct aiming. They were only useful in massive battles where a soldier could aim blind.

They were all attempting to shoot small targets sixty meters away. Why were they shooting guns while in hiding, anyway? Honestly, Ciel'd had the notion that Michaelis was intelligent, and yet here he was risking the capture of his entire force for the sake of mastering a useless weapon.

BANG!

Great God, he prayed this would end soon.

"Young servant!"

Ciel looked up to meet Michaelis' red gaze and aggravating smile.

"I would not be presumptuous in assuming that you have skill with a musket?"

Ciel did not resist the urge to roll his eyes, and spoke in a loud, haughty voice despite the number it did on his throbbing head. "Of course I do."

"Sir," Michaelis corrected.

"_Sir_." Ciel was sure to sneer the word.

"Demonstrate the method necessary to hit one of these targets, dog."

He made sure to keep his glare stone-cold as he climbed to his feet and made his way – as steadily as he could – to Michaelis and the gun in his outstretched hand. He snatched it from him roughly, loaded it, cocked it, held it up against his left shoulder, released a steady stream of breath, and pulled the trigger. All in a number of seconds.

BANG! His head felt fit to melt, but he kept firm against the kick and watched as the round bullet popped a hole into the center of the target sixty meters in front of him.

There was a peculiar silence among his observers as he lowered the gun and did _not_ grab his head. His pulse thundered in his temples and the targets in front of him swirled around a bit before settling back into their proper positions.

A large, pale, spidery hand entered his peripheral vision.

"The musket, servant." Michaelis' voice was low and cold, and Ciel thrust it into his palm before heading at a determinedly _steady _pace back to the side-lines.

"Now that demonstration was obviously not of much practical value to you all, seeing as my servant shoots with his left hand. However, let this show you that this is not a matter of brute strength. If a small child can hit the target, then you should feel shame in not possessing equal ability."

Ciel fumed, and he lowered himself to the ground slowly, eyes boring into the bastard's. His specialties spanned to greater heights that most educated grown men, and Michaelis was speaking of him as if he were an inept peasant boy.

How long was this going to last?

Ciel remained silent as Michaelis rattled on about technique and method and _no, like this_ and _faster, more practice_, and a few hours passed by in a matter of minutes. Aside from the inexcusable belittling treatment and the torturous headache, this was much more bearable than, say, the strategy meeting.

* * *

><p>By nighttime, the blindfold was secure and the stoppers were in place once again. Ciel made a mental note to avoid jinxing himself, ever again.<p>

He felt the rumble of low, course voices as Michaelis led the impromptu council. Ciel was exhausted, sore, and in pain. He felt as if his head was being run through with a thousand knives and his wrists were raw from the rope that Michaelis had retied. Being vulnerable to the torment of grown men was the last thing he wished to do right now.

But thank God Almighty, the pokes and shoves lasted no longer than a quarter of an hour before the men filed out rapidly and Michaelis pulled Ciel's hindrances from him.

"We are relocating. Do not dawdle, do not slow us down, or I will kill you."

Michaelis' voice held no trace of amusement, and his face was impassive. Ciel stared at him.

"What's going on?"

"You, as a lowly servant, have no business asking such questions. Know your place."

"My _place_ is at the queen's side. I demand to know where I am being taken!"

Michaelis' blood eyes smoldered into his own, and Ciel felt his heart flutter in his chest. It was like staring down a stone wall and seeing which opponent would crumble first.

The outcome was obvious.

"You are not to ask questions that will inhibit my progress. You have no need to be informed of our future location."

Ciel, true to his reputation, refused to back down. "I have _every_ need – "

The world spun and exploded as Ciel was driven to the ground by a crushing blow to the head, and then there was nothing.

When he came to, Ciel was wearing fresh clothes. And lying on a soft bed. He wanted to drift off once more – he had a _horrendous_ headache – but he knew he'd slept for too long and opened his eyes. He stared at a familiar beautiful vaulted ceiling a moment before sitting up.

He looked around. He was in his bedroom. _Odd_, he thought, eyes narrowing. _Wasn't I_…

But he couldn't remember what he was and shrugged it off before standing. He was fully dressed in a green coat, knickers and high socks. If this was strange, he did not acknowledge it. He trudged from the room, into the long, light hallway and made his way to the drawing room. There was something in there, and he had to see to it.

He reached the door. He turned the knob. He walked inside.

"Ciel, darling!"

And inside, was his mother.

Her back was turned to him as she sipped a bit of tea, sitting smartly on one of the ornate sofas. She was wearing a long lavender gown and her golden hair was long and flowing over one shoulder. She looked the epitome of the noble class, and Ciel felt his breath catch.

"Mother?"

He took five steps forward as she took another sip of tea before setting the little cup down on the mahogany table in front of the sofa.

"I have a surprise for you, dear."

"A – surprise?" Ciel could feel tears pricking at his eyes like needles, and he barely noticed as they trailed down his face. His mother…his mother…

…She was _right here._

"Yes, for your birthday." Her voice was like bells, sharp and light and _so beautiful_.

"What – what is it?" He was choking on the tears that were downing him, and he was faintly proud of himself for speaking coherently.

He was at the sofa now. He touched her arm, and like the flick of a switch, the room was roaring as fire ate the walls and the furniture and the carpet. It was licking its way up his mother's beautiful lavender dress. She turned to him, and her face was sown down the middle, the expressions of both his parents staring back at him, disjointed eyes alight with glee and frenzy and the desire to watch blood spill.

"PROTESTANTS ARE DEMONS! WE THRUST OURSELVES INTO HELLFIRE!"

Ciel was horrified and confused - but he wasn't confused at all, because he'd been here before and he'd seen this face before and he knew what would happen next -

"THERE"S ROOM ENOUGH FOR YOU WITH US HERE!"

Ciel felt heat and a different kind of tears choke him, and he fell to his knees, coughing and gasping and crying and screaming and there was nothing, _nothing_ he could do except wait for the fire to reach his flesh –

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DARLING!"

And then Ciel actually came to, both eyes snapping open as he gasped undetectably. He listened to his heart race and concentrated on the pounding in his head and did not close his eyes longer than to blink. He sat up, groggy senses returning to him, and was surprised to find himself outside, in an unfamiliar forest, on the ground next to a cart as men and women bustled about, setting up tents and fortifying lean-to's with blankets.

He shivered and felt goose bumps rise on his arms as he looked up at the bright, ever-grey sky. It must have been morning.

They had relocated, hadn't they? That would explain the change of scenery. And Michaelis had knocked him out after Ciel had been obstinate and had refused to move. That would explain the splitting headache.

"Servant!"

Speak of the devil.

He turned and watched as Michaelis strode toward him, red eyes burning, stance firm and tailcoat trailing behind him. He looked like a fiend, come to devour his soul, and Ciel found it very fitting, Michaelis being Protestant and all.

Michaelis was quickly upon him. Ciel expected him to stop in front of him and bark an order to stand, and so he was surprised when he felt his arm crushed in a bruising grip and felt himself be viciously yanked into a standing position, head spinning. There was no time to recover, however, for Michaelis was hauling him through the bustling revolutionaries and into what Ciel assumed was the new command tent. Ciel was thrown to the ground and kicked violently in the stomach. All the breath left his lungs, and his eyes widened the tiniest degree as he fought to recall it. He coughed as Michaelis spoke, voice like tempered steel.

"You will _not_. Disobey me again."

Ciel met the man's fiery gaze with one of ice. "Burn in hell, rebel."

Another powerful kick, and another, and another. Ciel did not make a sound, scrunching both his eyes up against the terrific pain of Michaelis' blows as they rained down and down and down –

A yelp erupted from his lips of its own volition as he was kicked in the chest and felt something crack. He slapped his hand over his mouth and after three more vicious blows, the storm cleared and Ciel dared to breathe.

After a moment of stony silence, Ciel opened his eye to see Michaelis standing over him, eyes like slow-melting lava.

"Stand. The unpacking is not finished. You have work to do."

Ciel maintained eye contact as he attempted to rise. He released a tiny gasp as something in his chest turned white-hot and he crumpled back to the ground, holding his breath against the pain.

"_Stand_. I will not tell you again."

Michaelis was not just an arrogant bastard; Michaelis was a demon. But he'd faced demons and devils before, and he had not bowed to them, either.

He rose painfully, glaring as he stood on shaking legs. Michaelis turned and left the tent, and Ciel followed him into the light of the morning, each step avalanching him with agony that was more than physical.

**Could anybody tell me how exactly you get the italics to work on this site? You kinda lose half of Ciel's character because all the italics go away, and it's really bothering me.**


	4. Surfacing

Counting Dropping Heads

Chapter Four: Surfacing

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><p>"Buried how long?"<p>

The answer was always the same. "_Almost eighteen years_."

"You had abandoned all hope of being dug out?"

"_Long ago_."

"You know that you are recalled to life?"

"_They tell me so."_

"I hope you care to live?"

"..._I can't say_."

Charles Dickens

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><p>In a secluded plot of some English forest unknown, the Queen's Guard Dog and her chief adversaries lived side-by-side for two weeks, the long days blurring into one mass of routine, only distinguished when the routine was shattered by something significant.<p>

The first abnormal day he'd experienced there, Ciel soon realized, was the day when they had relocated camp. On those days, the soldiers would handle muskets freely, knowing any trace of the legion would be gone by the time the queen's men set out to investigate the gunshots. Moving Days were uncommon and were marked by a festive, carefree day and a tense night as they set out elsewhere, shaking off all potential for pursuit.

The first normal day he had with the rebels, Ciel soon realized, was the morning after the Moving Day. Upon their first interactions, Michaelis must have primarily been considering him, sizing him up, deciding upon the best approach to break his willful prisoner. He had obviously resolved to beat obedience into Ciel, and proceeded to bestow obedience upon his servant every time Ciel disrespected or disobeyed him (which was a vast number of times, every day). Needless to say, the Queen's Guard Dog harbored a bountiful assortment of bruises and welts, very early on in his captivity.

The revolutionaries never said anything. As they would sit for lunch – Michaelis on some log or rock, Ciel on the ground – pity for the _poor little boy_ would shine in all their eyes, but they never once opened their mouths to question Michaelis about it or reproach him, and for that Ciel was relieved.

The hits and smacks were powerful, but they did little to quiet Ciel. He relished in every blow, the biting pain reminding him of the price his disobedience had cost, and how it was worth every penny.

The days were routine. Reveille, plans, meetings – he could do nothing to relish in these, and suffered until the second they were adjourned – food, talk, weapons training, more plans, all with regular bruises sprinkled into the schedule. It was repetitive and miserable and Ciel felt his hatred for Michaelis grow every day. As soon as he was out of this servitude, he'd make sure the red-eyed man suffered the humiliation he had before slaughtering him with the rest of his troops.

But right now, it was midday, and they were eating, roughly carved wooden bowls in hand. His wrists were unbound for the time-being. Ciel had learned to take his time eating; it was the perfect distraction from his unattractive situation at Michaelis' feet, and it gave him something to do other than glare defiantly at the people around him. He took a bite of his course beef stew.

"Seh, when do you reckon it'll be a proper time to attack?"

The speaker was a woman he now knew as Mey-Rin, empty-headed in conversation but fierce and deadly when thrust into battle. Ciel looked up after taking a moment to process what had been said.

"These matters are best discussed during strategy meetings, rather than over lunch. Wouldn't you agree, Mey-Rin?"

Michaelis' tone held the sweetness of a murderer, and Ciel watched as Mey-Rin blushed and stuttered out an affirmative before returning to her food. He looked back to Michaelis.

"Why is such a matter so inappropriate for conversation among friends, _sir_?"

Michaelis looked down at Ciel as if just noticing his presence at his feet, and Ciel sneered at him. Michaelis' eyes narrowed and he spoke in a level voice.

"Do not question matters you have no part of, dog."

He reached down and gave the boy a few rough, condescending pats on the cheek before turning back to their audience. Ciel blinked. He'd been expecting Michaelis to beat him in front of them all for his little display – he'd punished him in the same way for lesser crimes just yesterday. He didn't quite understand this man, and it made him a dangerous opponent.

They finished up their food in due time, Ciel following Michaelis to the "armory" – really just a clearing in the woods a ways off from the camp – for weapons training. The day's men were already waiting for them there, and Ciel took a seat on the ground as he watched Michaelis begin his instruction on how to effectively use a knife to kill a grown man.

Ciel freely admitted the Michaelis was skilled – shockingly so. He seemed to be an expert in every weapon known to England, and a number of weapons unknown to it. Ciel found value in watching Michaelis demonstrate the proper techniques for wielding particular blades or staffs, but his teaching style left much to be desired. Every lesson was a crash course, a master's knowledge condensed in an hour-long session. He barreled through the mechanics of it all, leaving his lesser, largely-uneducated soldiers scratching their heads. Having a great deal of experience with these weapons himself, Ciel had no trouble following along, and found himself even taking mental notes to apply some of Michaelis' more effective styles in the future, but for an inexperienced peasant who'd never held a sharper weapon than a pitchfork – well, Michaelis was casting a hasty line in a bone-dry sea.

"Flick your wrist at the last instant – no, like this – it's similar to throwing a punch, it will result in a more effective angle. Otherwise you're likely to miss the target's heart."

Ciel knew all this, and felt a distant wave of disdain splash over him as he watched the peasant nearest him attempt the move, and miss the wooden target completely. How could people as dense as the ones facing him possibly survive in society? Was stupidity the allying factor of this rebellion?

How pathetic.

It did nothing to stroke his ego either, that he was the captive of these buffoons. There was not one aspect of this situation that was _not_ humiliating.

"Oh sir, I do think I've made a mess of things. Would you oblige me in demonstrating once more?"

Ciel's nose wrinkled. He'd become very familiar with Grell Sutcliff over the duration of his stay. The red-haired archer – who seemed to have exchanged archery for swordsmanship a week ago – was infatuated with Michaelis. He followed him around like a pet in his spare time, flirted in professional situations, and couldn't seem to process the blatant rejections he perpetually received from the object of his affections. At first, Ciel hadn't known whose side to pick, disliking them both so resolutely. But Grell was ruthless to Ciel when he could get away with it – and he could do so quite often – and commonly rallied up the other troops against him, making his unpleasant stay at camp twice as bad. Michaelis – _oh_ how he hated that man – had professionalism and competence going for him, at the very least. Grell was simply destined to be loathed by people like Ciel, and by the general public, for that matter.

Michaelis sauntered over to Grell's side. "What exactly is it that confuses you, Grell?"

"The wrist motion, in particular. I just can't seem to get it right on my own." Grell smiled impishly and batted his eyes.

Michaelis was not a stupid man. That much Ciel had determined about him. So he was pretty sure Michaelis wouldn't fall for Grell's pathetically-veiled attempts at flirting. He blinked then, when Michaelis calmly explained the procedure to Grell again, grabbing his wrist and guiding it through the proper motions at a lethargic speed, the knife-point meeting the middle of the target. Grell squealed.

"Thank you, Sebastian, you're such a wonderful teacher!"

From his angle, Ciel just barely caught the hardening of Michaelis' red eyes as he responded with a tight "pleased to help," and Ciel smirked. It was amusing to watch Michaelis' feathers ruffle, even if minutely.

* * *

><p>By nightfall, the blindfold and stoppers were secure once again and his wrists were rebound as the meeting began. Why the revolutionaries felt it necessary to discuss the plan nearly every night, Ciel would probably never know.<p>

The men were always aggressive, and Ciel always felt at his lowest during these hours, but tonight seemed especially brutal. Ciel was unsure if Grell's petty gossip was behind it, or if it was simply the mood of the men. Either way, Ciel felt like a helpless child as he failed to defend himself from the shoves and light hits and harsh jabs. He scowled around the room, but this only seemed to spur them on.

After thirty minutes of perpetually being nudged about by these pigs, Ciel figured barking was not enough. Over the grumble of men's voices, he felt the next poke coming toward his left shoulder, and turned – _just so_ – and bit the man's finger. He tasted blood, and felt the man roar.

Next thing he knew, he was being torn from the ground by his bound, tender wrists and dragged from the tent. He felt the voices gain volume as the cool autumn air of the forest ghosted over his face.

He did his best to remain calm as he was thrown to the ground, his cheek tearing against a jagged rock. The voices were thunderous, and he felt the first kick to his stomach. His breath left him, and a kick to the back impeded him from gaining it back. The kicks and punches and blows and yells rained down on him and he was drowning in the pain.

It lasted an eternity and the blows kept coming and he could do nothing to anticipate or block them. He felt tears spring forth in his eyes, despite the tiny part of him that remained aware being overrun with shame and dismay, as a foot dug itself deeply into his chest and he felt something crack – the healing rib Michaelis had broken already.

There was a very loud, rumbling voice that thundered above the others, a monstrous blow to the back of the head, and then there was nothing.

* * *

><p>When Ciel awoke, he wished he hadn't. He was lying back on his harem's bed – he rued the day he ever thought of the term, but it had stuck in his mind – again, and it was comfortable and when he opened his eye the world exploded with pain. He tried to groan, but couldn't force the sound out.<p>

"Learn your place quickly, little one, or this simple servitude will be the death of you."

Michaelis' voice held the amusement that his trademark sinister smile did, and the hot irritation that flooded Ciel's veins dulled the pain a bit. He twisted his head to face the man leaning against his cot with that coy grin of his, and would have retorted if his voice had been in working order. But alas, it was not, so he settled with throwing Michaelis a glare.

Michaelis sauntered over to Ciel's harem's bed and reached out to grasp his roped wrists in a bruising grip, dragging him from the blankets. Ciel couldn't hold back his gasp of pain as the rope cut into his chafed skin. The red-eyed man resituated him next to his cot, and Ciel gained his balance as quickly as possible. He glanced at his wrist just as a drop of blood made its way down his hand and to the floor at his pale feet.

"Just give in. Children cry. Just cry for me."

The grasp tightened, and this time Ciel allowed no sound to leave his mouth as he glared up at the demon bastard Michaelis.

"_Cry_."

As his grip got tighter and tighter, Ciel's determination only became fiercer. He would not cry. He could break his wrist, he could kill him, but Ciel would never give this man the satisfaction of knowing how hard this was for him.

"I am not a child."

The grip got so tight, Ciel's fingers took on a purple hue.

"Yes, you are. Why do you pretend otherwise?"

Their eyes battled, blue on red, and the atmosphere changed. They were opponents, they were at war, and yet…

Ciel could sense it. In each other's eyes, both acknowledged the strength, the _beauty_ of the other.

"I am not pretending."

He reined in a hiss as the fingers turned blue.

"Yes, you are. You hold this obstinacy in the name of a queen you care nothing for, and you refuse to accept that children are not meant to stand alone as you do."

Ciel's heart sped up and his glare faltered for a second or two. When he recalled himself, his glare became harder and colder.

"I do _not_ pretend, Michaelis."

A smirk. "That mask on your face begs to differ, my child." The grip tightened, but it didn't much matter because Ciel had begun to lose feeling in his hands by now.

Ciel's eyes flashed. "As if you wear no masks! You are a demon masquerading as a Protestant martyr."

Michaelis' fingers tightened around his wrists more than ever. Red, gory liquid steadily _drip-drip-dripped_ from his fingertips to the small puddle on the ground and Ciel's glare never faltered. "If we are the demons, Ciel Phantomhive, what does that make your blood-thirsty queen?"

"It makes her an honorable one, for snuffing out those evils within the English realm."

Michaelis let out a breath, seeming exasperated for the first time since Ciel had met him. "There you go again with your pretending! What do I have to do to make you relinquish your false loyalty to that woman, once and for all?"

Ciel leaned in close, his arms burning and his wrists draining, and he ignored the dark spots distorting his vision.

"I am duty-bound to serve my queen. Nothing you say would make me forsake my duty."

Michaelis leaned in as well, pulling Ciel's wrists toward himself and leaving perhaps an inch between them. He spoke in a whisper.

"You have no obligation to a serve a human being that has done nothing but strip your heart bear, little one."

Ciel stumbled back half a foot, glare broken by his surprise. Michaelis smirked, eyes holding an indiscernible emotion, and released his wrists. Ciel felt the restrained blood shoot to his nearly dead hands, and he bit back a gasp of pain at the sensation. If he hadn't been looking at them, he would have thought they were being stabbed by a thousand needles, and the black spots came to conquer nearly all of his vision now. Suddenly Michaelis was at his side, gauze in his grasp. Ciel felt his hands get taken up in large, callous ones and the chafing rope was removed at an almost inhuman speed. His wrists were wrapped – with surprising gentleness – in the soft white gauze by the same large, rough hands. His raw skin ached and burned, but Ciel didn't much care, feeling very tired all of a sudden. His eyelid drooped gently to half-mast as his brain processed words like _shock _and _blood loss._

He heard Michaelis shuffle about for a moment before a canteen was pressed to his lips. His brows furrowed and he clamped his mouth firmly shut, but a large hand tipped his head steadily back and a small taste proved the liquid inside to be water. He took a number of small sips and shivered, suddenly feeling very cold.

A throat chuckled and Ciel felt a blanket of coat drape itself over his shoulders before he was encircled by something firm and warm and lifted up. "Fragile little thing, aren't you?" He lay his head against whatever was holding him, despite the faint protests in the back of some part of his mind, and his visible eye drooped completely closed.

He was set back down atop blankets before blankets were settled atop him, cocooning his body. His shivering abated completely, and he heard the rumble of a last soft chuckle as he drifted off.

**And so ends this enstallment of Counting Dropping Heads. Hope you guys liked it. Please do me a favor and review, even if it's to bash. I'd like to know what I'm doing right and what I'm doing wrong in this story as far as the writing goes, so don't hesitatae to get nit-picky and overbearing, I'd very much prefer that over praise or flames :D**


	5. Exposing

**So herein lies the next chapter of my story. **

**Three major things ended since I last updated! I finished Tale of Two Cities - congrats to NightOwl for winning my home-baked virtual cookies - and cried when...but I shan't spoil it, in case anyone ever decides to read it. I highly suggest you do, it's an awesome book, full of love and hate and awesome characters. Highly recommend it.**

**I also finished watching the second season of Kuro - yes, I know I'm behind the times, but cut me some slack. I absolutely loved it, but I hated how they waited till the last moment to draw back the curtain and practically say "HA! Fooled you, huh? And YOU thought they loved each other, NO! They can't stand each other, and now they gotta be together FORVER! Joke's on you!"**

**Yeah, I was pissed for a good three days.**

**Lastly, my mom and her husband very suddenly split up just last night (really did not see that one coming, it was a quick, silent just-pack-your-bags-and-go type ordeal) so I'm very sorry if this chapter is fuzzy in parts. I'm depressed, emotionally drained and scatter-brained (I'm a poet and I didn't know it) right now, so I'm terribly sorry if that affects my writing in any way.**

**In other news, I LOVED the specificity of the reviews, especially the one from an anonymous reviewer by the name of Nerdanel. Thank you so much for picking my story apart and taking the time to tell me how I can improve, it really means the world to me.**

**Just realized I've never done a disclaimer. Well. Pretty obvious, I don't own Kuroshitsugi.**

* * *

><p>Counting Dropping Heads<p>

Chapter Five: Exposing

* * *

><p>"The two men – so alike each other in feature, so unlike each other in manner – standing side by side, both reflected in the glass above them."<p>

Charles Dickens

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><p>He was so tired of being here. The smell of rust and blood choked him, and the pain was like a burning liquid washing his flesh, flowing through his veins and scalding everything in its wake. The metal underneath him was a biting cold, salt in his wounds. He looked drearily out between the bars and saw the backs of those leering masked faces. The masks were cheerful, elegant curtains concealing devils' performances that had concluded but minutes previously.<p>

He was so tired of being here. Because once he left this cold, biting cage, the masks would be flung off and the horror show would debut for the audience, the first time all over again.

He was in the cage now, closed in by his preaching, masked tormentors, broken and bleeding and almost crying because _this_ was the reprieve. It was only the intermission, and the show would go on soon, and then he would pray to some non-existent being that he might be returned to this frigid metal cage.

He was so tired of being here. So he continued to stare out between the bars, and his deep blue eyes dulled the tiniest degree.

* * *

><p>Ciel awoke the next morning with an ache in no definite place. He groaned lightly, hot knives piercing his chest as he rolled over onto his side. He scrunched both eyes closed, trying to get acquainted with the metallic, icy burn that radiated from his ribs and wrists primarily, from his whole body to some lesser extent.<p>

He squinted his eyes open cautiously and was greeted by the white tarp that served as the ceiling of Michaelis' tent, glowing with unusually vibrant sunlight. He looked around the makeshift bedroom to find an empty cot. Michaelis' boots, usually settled next to the entrance, were nowhere to be found. Ciel was alone in the tent. He blinked and sat up painfully.

After a minute or two of confusion, his hands shot up toward his face, eyes wide - his eye patch was gone. He looked toward the entrance, and covered his right eye with his hand before looking around the tent for the little piece of black cloth. He couldn't find it anywhere around his harem's bed. He sighed, and steeled himself before hauling his body painfully into a standing position, blankets falling to the floor with a rustle that masked the silence of the tent. He stumbled about the small space, turning over clothes and satchels for some time before straightening out with an agonized groan, empty-handed. His eyes darted left and right, refusing to give up the search.

"Looking for this, little one?"

Ciel spun around, gasping as one small hand grabbed at his throbbing chest and the other covered his right eye. Michaelis was standing in the entrance, expression open, hand outstretched. Ciel's uncovered eye caught sight of that familiar black cloth entwined in the man's long fingers. He looked back up at Michaelis before stepping forward to take it. Michaelis stepped back, only half his body in the tent now.

"-Ah. But I was wondering why it is that you find it so necessary for this little thing to conceal your face."

Ciel's eye narrowed. He didn't say anything. A smile played on the edges of the man's lips, and the tent darkened as a reliable English cloud covered the sun.

"After all, to hide one's eyes…it suggests an amount of weakness, does it not?"

He frowned, eye growing cold. "That eye patch in your hand has never been used to hide."

Michaelis' smile widened, his expression amusedly perplexed. "What other purpose could it serve, little one?"

Ciel kept his gaze steady and his mouth shut. Truthfully, the drastic contrast in the quality of his vision between his two eyes disoriented and unnerved him, and he much preferred to undergo total blindness in his injured eye. The eye patch would also prevent business associates or political allies from being unnerved themselves, and saved him the time wasted needlessly explaining the origin of his abnormality. With an eye patch, people kept their mouths shut and accepted that what was hidden beneath that black fabric was not to be seen.

_What other purpose could it serve, little one?_

Michaelis sauntered over to Ciel's side, smirking as if hearing the boy's own thoughts betray their thinker. Ciel's back was to him as the man grasped his shoulders and bent down, breath tickling his ear.

"Eyes are the gateway to the soul. One should not conceal such an important thing behind black fabric. It ought to be displayed proudly, without shame."

Ciel would not obey him. A large hand wrapped itself around Ciel's right forearm, just above his bandaged, stinging wrists, and pulled it down. Ciel resisted with a scowl, but Sebastian was much stronger than he, and his hand was wrenched away from his eye. He squeezed them both shut defiantly as Michaelis turned him around so that they were standing face-to-face. Ciel's lips pursed tightly.

Michaelis was playing games with him, creating a situation where Ciel could not win, no matter what he chose to do. He felt a large hand grab his chin and tilt his head up. Michaelis' voice was a chuckling, fiendish whisper.

"Why do you refuse to show me both your eyes? Either you humor me this insignificant little request, or you will properly admit to me that you are nothing more than a shameful coward."

Both eyes snapped open, pinning a brutal stare on the red-eyed man, and Ciel observed that Michaelis did not appear at all unnerved by his cloudy-white eye…

"I am _not_ a coward."

…On the contrary, Michaelis' lips pulled toward the ceiling at the corners as he chuckled deep in his throat.

"No, you are not."

Overhead, that English cloud floated on past the sun's glaring path, and the tent glowed once more as Ciel snatched the black eye patch irritably from Michaelis' grasp and tossed it onto his harem's bed. They turned, and left the tent side-by-side to begin the day, if a little behind schedule.

* * *

><p>Perhaps once a week, Michaelis would take an hour or two out of his day to trek to the other side of camp, where resided a tent chocked full with weapons, ammunition, sustenance, medicines, and various odds and ends. He would enter the tent, a grumbling Ciel at his heals, and take silent inventory, presumably to discuss later at some meeting or another. Ciel typically would remain silent during these hours, discreetly taking mental records of the rebels' stock for himself. Ciel's observations would always have to be made from the shadowy corner of the tent Michaelis would order him to kneel in during these sessions, but he would always make sure not to miss anything. Two metal saws and a sack of vegetables would share their corner with him as he would discreetly crane his neck this way and that to see around stacks of provisions. Last week, they'd had 94 bullet-cases, too much food to dream of starvation, and a scanty amount of medication that had left Ciel fantasizing the rest of the day about a single insect or rat fulfilling his duties for him.<p>

Today was an Inventory Day. They walked beside each other in silence, but Michaelis was heading in the direction of the stock tent and Ciel was following him while both upheld this strange new equality they'd happened upon. It was warm and bright out today, and the faces they passed were more cheerful than usual. It was strange being in the presence of other people without his eye patch, and he felt very naked as he swept past the ones he knew by name. But he kept both eyes open and his head held high as he walked side-by-side with Michaelis, and they arrived at the makeshift store room in no time at all. Michaelis pulled the tent flap back for them both to walk through.

It was cool and shaded in the tent. Ciel looked around with his quasi-kaleidoscope vision as he hobbled over to his usual corner before Michaelis could order. He lowered himself painfully to the ground and proceeded to battle with which boxes had doubled or faded in his vision and which were actually misplaced since last week. Five minutes in, Ciel's concentration broke on bullet-box number thirty-eight as Michaelis' voice sounded from the other side of the tent.

"How did you acquire that cataract?"

Ciel was silent, brows furrowing slightly.

"Why would you wish to know?"

A chuckle. "It's called making conversation, little one. And I'm very curious about it."

Silence from Ciel's end.

"Was it a birth defect?"

"No."

"How did it come to be then?" His voice suggested nothing but polite curiosity, and Ciel struggled for the briefest of moments with a neutral answer.

"It was the result of a blow."

"Dealt by whom, might I ask?" He sounded as if they were sitting across an ornate table from each other in Ciel's own manor drinking hot tea, not minding their own affairs on the opposite ends of a tent in the middle of the wilderness, hundreds of pounds of war supplies piled between them.

"No, you may not."

There was a smirk in his voice now. "Ah, so a servant of the queen's is responsible? Now why would she order that?"

"I never said anything to suggest that the queen did this to me."

"Of course not." Michaelis sounded preoccupied, and it was obvious that his presumption remained the same. "Now we Protestants have had our fair share of suffering due to Queen Mary. Not a few of the men and women here have been torn from their homes, robbed of their possessions, and forced to look into the eyes of their children as they were butchered like pigs in front of them. It's ironic that you would feel such contempt for a race of men that understands your particular lot in life better than any noble would."

Ciel kept his mismatched gaze stern, but looked down. His voice held the same pride as always, but was soft.

"Regardless, my hardships are my own."

There was a smile in Michaelis' low voice. "They do not have to be, little one. We Protestants must stick together, after all."

Both eyes, cloudy white and dark crystalline blue, flickered up in the voice's direction and narrowed as one. "I am not Protestant."

There was a shuffle as Michaelis resituated himself in another part of the tent, still taking stock. Ciel blinked. He himself had stopped counting some time ago. There was a barking laugh. "Do not attempt to fool me so pitifully, Ciel Phantomhive. Your family has been Protestant for generations. Your parents were murdered at the hands of the queen, and you were captured by her men. I know enough of your history to determine something as simple as your religion."

Silence. Ciel felt hollow, a porcelain shell carved out and filled with air. Frozen. He stared with both his eyes at the stack of guns to his right, and saw nothing.

There were a few speechless moments in which Ciel was made of china and Michaelis counted his supplies. Then Ciel spoke, still frozen, in a smooth, emotionless voice to the man across the room that he could not see.

"How do you know all that about me?"

An amused chuckle shook the air, but Michaelis' voice was heart-felt and gentle as the wind, and it didn't shatter Ciel into a sea of diamonds on the ground. "The queen is proficient at hushing things up, but even silent things can be seen by those who take the time to look around."

Ciel heard what he said, and let it splash against his skin without really absorbing it. He responded mechanically. "Been stalking me, have you?"

"More researching, little one. I happened upon the Phantomhives while looking for potential noble allies."

"And when was this research done?"

"About two years ago. You had been the head of the Phantomhive household for a good six months, by this time."

Ciel felt bile rise in his throat and he forced it down.

"You seem rather – surprised by this news, I must observe."

He could feel his heart hammering in his ears. _Surprised_ did not quite cut it.

Earl Ciel Phantomhive had a reputation for being a ruthless Protestant hunter, the queen's most powerful executioner. To know that the truth was just _floating around_, accessible to anyone…

Ciel fought to keep his breathing under control.

"How did you – _happen upon_ this information?"

Another shuffle. Funny that Michaelis was still counting while Ciel's world careened out of control. "Oh, if you're worried about your public image, you have nothing to fear. Your history was by no means easy to dig up; I am simply one hell of an investigator."

This did nothing to ease the storm in Ciel's mind. Michaelis seemed to sense it.

"Why does the possibility, slim as it may be, of the masses discovering your family's true loyalties trouble you so? Would it not be better, that the truth be revealed?"

A flame ignited deep inside him, melting his porcelain muscles and lighting his perpetually short fuse of a temper. Both glaring eyes snapped up to the kaleidoscope image of Michaelis, half-concealed by a tall stack of boxes. "The truth? That my family was unfaithful to England's queen? That she kidnapped me and molded me into her most powerful pawn? That it's all a farce? _Why_ would the public _ever_ need to be subjected to this _truth_?"

Four red, off-kilter eyes expressed confusion as Michaelis' head cocked to the side. "Why do you feel that the people ought to be lied to?"

Ciel stared at the man as if he were an infuriatingly dense child. "So you feel that they should be at the mercy of reality's cruelty? Queen Mary has established a pleasant world for England to live in, and the people are accustomed to this world. The lie should not lifted, or all hell will break loose."

Michaelis turned to face Ciel from across the tent, a true smile resting on his lips. Ciel blinked, and felt the man's smoldering red gaze ignite him more than his own anger had.

"Little one, that it _exactly_ what I want. Mary's mask ought to be stripped off, the brutal truth ought to be set free, and we _devilish_ Protestants ought to have the right to dance in the flames! Don't you see? England is a noble country, worth far more than the pleasing lies Mary offers her! We must accept the _truth_, not her petty illusion! Until the day this is done, Protestants will be stomped out by the _true_ devils of this great nation."

Ciel shook his head viciously. "No! People _prefer _pleasing lies! They are happy under the care of Queen Mary! It is not the right of one small minority to uproot the system and snatch that contentment from their grasps!"

Michaelis began making his way toward Ciel's shadowed corner, weaving in and out of supply stacks. A smirk – duplicated a few times over in Ciel's broken-mirror vision – grew on his face as he knelt in front of the boy.

"A small minority, you say? Little one, have you looked around you in the past year alone? Protestantism spreads like fire, like the Gospel through England. Most citizens are discreet about it, knowing their faith is no use to their country if they are persecuted. Well over half of the population has forsaken Catholicism in favor of our own religion, by now. Mary and her nobles believe themselves to be the holders of the curtain, but who do you think is running the show, in reality?"

Ciel's mind raced, and he dared not respond as he kept his uneven gaze on the man's red eyes. He did not trust Sebastian Michaelis, and could never know whether or not his words rang true. But the man was also capable and intelligent, and he had been entirely correct about his family history. What if he was right? What if Protestantism really was what lay behind England's curtain? What if Michaelis was a liar, cheaply attempting to gain another empty-headed ally?

He kept his mouth shut, mismatched eyes full of distrust. Michaelis' lips quirked upwards, and he stood, offering his own large, strong hand.

"Just something to think over. At any rate, we're done here."

Ciel glared a moment, before cautiously reaching up to place his (comparatively tiny) hand in Michaelis' and drawing himself to his feet, wincing as he did so. The pair of them turned and headed back into the sunlight of the outdoors, the younger of the two with _plenty_ to think over.

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><p><strong>Hope you liked! Please tell me how I did :D<strong>


	6. Immersion

**So sorry for the wait, school and allergies and technical difficulties bested me for a while. I almost got offed by a kiwi, how embarrassing :/ But it hasn't all been exciting, so I finally got this pulled together! Hope you like :D**

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><p>Counting Dropping Heads<p>

Chapter Six: Immersion

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><p>"It is very high; it is a little difficult. Better to begin slowly."<p>

Charles Dickens

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><p>"Mr. Sebastian, sah, how do you do it, once more? So sorry to keep asking –"<p>

"It's not a problem, May-Rin. This is a very tricky method, multiple demonstrations are to be expected."

It was bright and cheerful in the usually gloomy forest, with fat patches of sunlight breaking through the lofty leaves, and Ciel had to invest more focus to discern objects and happy people in the glow. He could feel a headache on the horizon, and ignored it dismissively.

Ciel was settled none-too-uncomfortably in his usual spot in the usual clearing, observing today's weapons training with disapproval. Practicing with long sticks in lieu of swords was idiotic and dangerous. The most useful blocks and parries were arduous enough to master, but if the soldiers mastered brandishing a piece of wood before being thrust into battle with heavy forged steal in their hands, they would all render themselves completely useless and drop like flies.

Idiotic and dangerous.

With mismatched eyes he watched the batch of rebels watch Michaelis demonstrate the move again with mesmerizing fluidity. It was a relatively simple move used to disarm an opponent – Ciel had gotten it on his third try, successfully disarming his trainer (one of the best swordsmen in the country) when he was ten years old – but Michaelis, as per usual, raced through it at a blurring pace, and without an opponent, making it virtually impossible for an audience to understand. From the sidelines, Ciel shook his head, and half the rebels scratched theirs. Michaelis was not a bad teacher, he was just –

No. He was a bad teacher.

Ciel smirked at pinning down a fault in this infuriatingly faultless man. He'd found a chink in Michaelis' golden armor. It was about time.

There was a great clatter as the soldiers broke off into pairs as commanded and practiced disarming each other. Ciel spotted Michaelis approaching his patch of forest mush on the sidelines with his typical shady grace, black hair shining in the golden light, and stared at him impassively. After the whole ordeal in the stock room this morning, Ciel had resolved to be more guarded around that red-eyed devil.

A rather friendly smirk lighted Michaelis' handsome features as he took a knee in front of Ciel.

"I have a proposition to make, little one."

Ciel stayed silent, but raised an eyebrow in question, and Michaelis continued.

"It is commonly acknowledged that the Queen's Watch Dog is proficient at most English weapons. This is correct?"

Ciel narrowed his eyes arrogantly. _Duh_.

Michaelis chuckled. "As I thought. And judging from your – _subtle_ body language during nearly every lesson, I daresay it is safe to assume you would have a number of improvements to make, were you in my position of authority?"

Ciel glanced over Michaelis' shoulder at the rebels, swimming through his convoluted vision to see the buffoons' clumsy attempts at mastering this elementary sword technique, and almost smiled. "What a commander does to make his soldiers a roaring success is his own business."

He could feel the man's smugness in the air like a noxious gas. "You are quite right, little one. Which is why I would like you to teach them alongside me."

His eyes snapped to Michaelis' laughing and inviting ones. In his shock, Ciel couldn't quite mould a biting comeback in his frozen lips.

"…Why?"

"I have been looking for an able teacher to hone my troops for quite some time. It is what they deserve."

"You have no idea the quality of my teaching skills, whether they are worth partnering with."

Michaelis grinned. "Regardless, mine appear not to be, and it would be nice to be graced with a fresh perspective."

Ciel did not bite his lip in thought. Instead, he rolled his eyes without a moment's hesitation and stood without wincing.

"If you insist."

Michaelis clapped his hands together with a rich bark of a laugh. "Excellent. Excuse me, everyone!"

Weapons – useless wooden sticks – stilled as forty heads turned one-by-one to face the sidelines, bodies quickly following suit. Michaelis smiled dazzlingly at them all, and all was silent.

"By now most of you have become acquainted with my young friend here." He gestured to Ciel as if showing off a prized possession, and Ciel felt a flare of annoyance that he made sure would not enter his expression of stony indifference. "He is going to assist me in teaching you all the mastery of today's techniques."

There was a massive rustle as the silent crowd shifted as one being. A gravelly, booming voice shook the air as the rugged blonde cook – Bard – spoke.

"Meanin' no disrespect, sah, but…why?"

Ciel kept his eyes pinned on the crowd – a silent challenge – so he felt rather than saw Michaelis' lips curl into a smirk. Ciel had a fleeting moment of deep insecurity – what if Michaelis was setting him up? – before the man responded.

"This individual, young though he may be, is highly experienced in the art of most weapons, including swordsmanship. You will all learn much quicker with two teachers amongst you."

A hand raised itself rather flamboyantly amidst the soldiers, and Ciel heard Michaelis sigh noiselessly.

"Yes, Grell?"

"Sebastian. I think I speak for _all_ of us when I say that _your_ teaching is more than satisfactory. Next to you, I don't think one _kid_ is going to make a significant difference." Nearly everyone in the crowd nodded their heads earnestly in agreement.

Ciel had to keep his mouth from falling open at the gall of this man, who'd spoken as if Ciel was not present to hear him. His outrage was radiating off him in waves; a few of the rebels closest lowered their heads and fidgeted uncomfortably as he torched them all with both eyes, piercing dark blue and eerie white. Why had he agreed to teach these swine?

Michaelis let Grell's comment float loftily around for a moment before viciously shooting it down with an arrow to the heart. His voice was calm and dead-serious. "This _kid_ is actively responsible for more combative fatalities than anyone else at this camp. He fights with more than enough skill to seize your life from your grasp with his bare hands in a matter of seconds. Everyone here could learn a thing or two from this _kid_."

Silence from the crowd. Most of the Protestants pinned fearful, suspicious glares onto the child in front of them. There were a scattered few, however, who for some reason seemed to be fighting grins as they stared bright-eyed at Ciel.

Michaelis smiled warmly beside him – a sneaky undertone reminder that only Ciel was quick enough to register for what it was: psychological manipulation. (_You are loyal to me because I am your beloved leader. I want him to teach you, so you do as well._)

Ciel observed, dazed, as the masks of suspicion melted off the rebel's faces like they'd been splashed with water.

"So. Are we all satisfied with today's arrangements?" The smile grew wider and faker. (_Today's arrangements. This is not a permanent deal, it's only one day. It would not be so hard to humor your revered leader, would it?)_

All his followers nodded with childishly adoring expressions, and Ciel silently admitted to himself that Michaelis was a persuasive genius. Whatever that skill was worth in a war.

"This is pleasing to hear. Everyone, break into partners once more. Mr. Ciel – you will address him thus – and I shall make our rounds, attending to you and making any necessary corrections. Continue sparring amongst yourselves."

The soldiers scrambled to pair up again, this time orienting themselves so that the right-hand side line was the front of the class. Ciel took it all in with an authoritative (blank) stare. Michaelis turned to him and spoke in a voice only Ciel could hear.

"We'll let them fumble about themselves for a bit, then we'll actually get to teaching them. Does that sound suitable?"

Ciel blinked, turning to face him. "Why are you doing this? Why vouch for me, your enemy?"

Michaelis smiled genuinely and bent down at the waist to Ciel's (rather unimpressive) height. "Because you are not my enemy, little one."

Ciel blinked – again – and glanced at the scrabbling soldiers. "Well. Regardless of your obscure motives, I believe your followers would be more comfortable meeting my eyes if my injured one were to be covered."

Michaelis chuckled and Ciel's unequal gaze flickered back to him. "If I remember correctly, you left it on your bed early this morning. You'll have to muddle through without it, I'm sorry to say."

He didn't sound sorry at all, and Ciel rolled his eyes irritably, refusing to feel nervous. Michaelis suddenly pinned him with inquisitive, black-fringed red eyes.

"You _have_ mastered this technique, correct?"

Ciel narrowed his eyes. "Of course. Years ago."

"So you will have no trouble teaching them what needs to be known?"

"What do _you_ think?"

A smile. "Excellent. I will start on the right side of the crowd. Would you like to begin on the left, or would you prefer my lot?"

"Does it _matter_?"

Michaelis chuckled, crimson eyes warm. "Of course not."

Ciel felt his heart skip a beat as the man turned and began walking away, and Ciel's hand reached out of its own volition to grab the back of Michaelis' coat.

"Wait!"

Michaelis stopped, and Ciel froze.

Why had he done that?

He turned again to face Ciel, warm eyes the color of cinnamon. His lips held no smirk. "Yes, little one?"

Ciel didn't move for a few seconds, frozen. Then his mouth opened and sound came out.

"W-why did you tell them to call me Mr. Ciel?"

Michaelis smiled. "Respect is essential to my rebellion. You are more than a servant, more than an enemy. Such a title says as much."

Ciel blinked twice. Then he schooled his expression properly and nodded.

"Carry on, then."

Michaelis' lips pulled upwards and he let out a short chuckle before turning away again. Ciel watched as he approached a stocky rebel nearby, black coat trailing behind him.

Ciel turned to his allotted soldiers, and adjusted his dark bangs in front of his right eye, his vision singling as he did so. He drew in a deep, soundless breath and walked toward the crowd, in search of Protestants he could help.

Who would have thought he'd be doing this?

He approached a familiar face first – a familiar face with sharp amber eyes and dark red hair. May-Rin was partnered with a blond young man Ciel didn't know (and that was a good three heads taller than him), and she seemed to have a firmer grasp on the basics of swordplay than most of her fellows. She snapped her useless stick left and right, fluidly catching her opponent's holes and successfully topped his stick with her own. But just as disarming him should have been a shoe-in, May-Rin froze and her opponent immediately broke away. Ciel stepped forward and spoke in an even voice.

"After you get your sword on top of his, you want to twist under it. He'll have no choice but to let go."

May-Rin turned her head to face him for a moment before topping his sword again and twisting it around this time. "Like – like this?"

Ciel shook his head and held his hand out. "May I?"

She smiled radiantly, and Ciel was briefly reminded of the cousin he hadn't seen in a hundred years. "Of course, Mr. Ciel!"

He made sure not to knit his brows at this and grabbed the stick from her hand. He faced the man, who looked completely at a loss what to do. "Just hold your stick out." He obeyed immediately. Ciel kept his brows very smooth.

"So –" He lined their sticks up so that his was directly atop the blonde's. "Once your sword is on top of your opponents, as yours was, you've got to twist under it – like _this_ –"

The stick spun out of the man's hand, and Ciel almost pouted at the absence of a metallic clatter as it collided with the leafy forest floor.

"-and they won't be able to keep a grip on it. The sword will be yanked from their hand, no matter how hard they hold on." He looked over to see May-Rin's eyes light up.

"Oh! Alright. May I try, sah?"

"Of course." He passed the stick to her.

She placed her "blade" on top of the man's after he retrieved it from the ground, and moved it like she was trying to weave the two sticks together. The stick fell from his hand again, and May-Rin beamed.

"Very good. Now you try." He motioned to the man, who immediately gathered up his stick and placed it on top of May-Rin's. He began twisting – in the wrong direction – and Ciel reached out and took hold of his wrist to stop him.

"No, the other way." He guided the man's hand, redirecting the stick's path so that it slid under May-Rin's.

"Now keep twisting around it in that direction." The blonde man did as he was told, and May-Rin's stick promptly fell to the ground. He smiled happily and silently, and Ciel allowed one corner of his lips to lift slightly.

"Good work. Now each of you do it once more."

May-Rin uttered a cheerful "Yes sah!" for them both and they got into stance. May-Rin topped the man's sword first, and Ciel acknowledged that he was seeing quintuple for the first time since his teaching started five minutes ago. His hand jumped to his eye, and May-Rin seemed to catch the hasty movement just as the blonde man's stick fell to the ground. Ciel smoothly brushed his bangs with his small fingers over his right eye, and May-Rin cocked her head and stared with her feline eyes.

"With all due respect, Mr. Ciel sah, you don't have to cover your injury for our sakes. We've seen what them Catholics do to torture people, yes we have."

Ciel blinked, unable to determine what a suitable response would be to that. He opened his mouth and closed it. He cleared his throat and opened it again, speaking in the same even voice as before. "The both of you appear to have the hang of this move, correct?"

They both nodded obediently.

"Good. Keep practicing until it becomes reflexive to you. I'm going to attend to others."

The tall, silent blonde looked down submissively, and May-Rin gave him a smile and a tiny bow. "Thank you, Mr. Ciel."

He turned away without another word. That had been very easy. He looked around for more struggling soldiers, and of course found a pair immediately. Five minutes later the two were showing off the move like they'd known it for years. Ciel moved on to the next group, who understood the method even more quickly than the last pair. He cut through the confused crowd, correcting every soldier he saw until they had a crystal-clear understanding of the move. Every rebel - enemy! - obeyed his orders and suggestions without a hint of complaint. Ciel did his best to keep his right eye covered from sight, but if he slipped up, whatever soldiers he was currently teaching were never phased. It was almost as if they expected to see something like it as part of his visage.

Before he knew it, he had perfected the disarming move in over half the soldiers, doing much of Michaelis' work for him before the man managed to get to it. The sun was setting, sky stained orange and pink visible through the trees, and Ciel knew the lesson would be drawing to a close any moment. Ciel looked about him for any stragglers he'd happened to miss. Everyone was performing the move with remarkable aptitude, and Ciel felt a tiny smile creep onto his face.

He headed for the front of the crowd – his sideline – and felt someone's gaze on him. He turned and met eyes with a Grell Sutcliff. The red-haired man was staring daggers at him as he sent a dark-haired man's weapon spinning out of his hand. Ciel stared back, keeping his gaze empty and arrogant. Grell huffed visibly before turning his attention back to his opponent, who disarmed him in a flash. Ciel smirked, then jumped as he felt a large hand on his shoulder.

Michaelis was smiling when he turned around. "I see everyone understands how to successfully disarm their opponent now."

Ciel nodded. "Yes, they do."

"Shall we wrap this up, then?"

Ciel nodded again, a bit more irritably this time (more out of habit than anything substantial), and followed Michaelis to the front. The red-eyed man clapped his hands, beaming. "Attention, please!"

The soldiers turned as one to face them with bright expressions. Michaelis spoke in a voice one would use to praise their only child.

"Today's practice was excellent. You all mastered this skill beautifully, and deserve some dinner. This concludes today's lesson, have a good night!"

The rebels bustled out of the clearing more loudly and more raucously than usual. Ciel felt his headache returning, and winced almost imperceptibly. Shadows of the trees were long and dark and growing longeer and darker still. Michaelis turned to Ciel after the last soldier left.

"You are a phenomenal teacher. Better even than I expected."

Ciel focused on Michaelis' honest expression, the shady lighting intensifying his visual difficulties. He cocked his head.

"Why did you want me to teach your soldiers? I could have taught them the quickest way to off themselves, for all you knew."

Michaelis leaned in close, smirking mischievously. "But you did not, did you? Why do you think that is, that you did not sabotage my cause?"

Ciel answered with a glare. "I am not on your side. I never will be."

Michaelis laughed, straightening as he did. "You are not on my side. But you are not on hers, are you?"

Ciel had no answer, and that seemed to be enough for Michaelis, who led the way out of the black clearing and back toward camp.

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><p><strong>A review a day keeps the...bad things away! :D Tell me if you didn't like it, those reviews are my favorite.<strong>


	7. Gambling

**At last, I have it! I have no excuse for the delay - other than life's happenings and ****a strange writer's block where I knew exactly what needed to happen, but didn't know how to get the ball rolling -**** but enough petty details. Thanks so much for your alerts and favorites and reviews, they warm my heart and feed my soul and all that jazz.**

**Oh, and I don't own Kuroshitsugi, Yana Toboso does. This carries throughout the story, cuz I'm not writing it every time.**

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><p>Counting Dropping Heads<p>

Seven: Gambling

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><p>"The raggedest nightcap, awry on the wretchedest head, had this crooked significance to it: 'I know how hard it has grown for me, the wearer of this, to support life in myself; but do you know how easy it has grown for me, the wearer of this, to destroy life in you?'"<p>

Charles Dickens

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><p>Supper was a chaotic ordeal. As per usual, those who could not find a log or a stone to sit upon would plant themselves on the ground or stand while they ate. But tonight, the soldiers laughed and shouted and teased and shoved as they gulped down their bland stew. Instead of scattering themselves about as always, the rebels grouped close together, the threads of warm camaraderie visibly tugging them into one rag-tag cluster, tightly centered around their leader. Ciel observed this phenomenon from the ground below them, where he ate in silence.<p>

Ciel ignored the noise of savage conversation for an impressive bit of time before, to his immense surprise, being dragged into an immensely pointless argument.

"What bullocks are you spewing, Finny? Madrigals are leagues better than that rubbish!"

"Motets aren't rubbish, Bard, they're wonderful!"

"Motets lack spirit, passion!"

"They most certainly do not! You gotcha terms jumbled, yes you do! What do you think, Mr. Ciel?"

Ciel's head jerked upwards as his name was called. It was easier than he would have expected to brush off the surprise at being addressed by someone other than Michaelis. "I'm sorry, what was that?"

Finny piped up, blonde hair wisping about a bit in the breeze and green eyes wide. "Which do you prefer, Mr. Ciel, between madrigals and motets?"

Ciel kept his gaze on the three rebels as he thought fast. This was not a trick or test – it was blatantly obvious that these three had not the malice nor the intelligence necessary for scheming – but nonetheless, he most certainly did not want to opinionate while amongst enemies.

"Why are you comparing the two?" His tone was light and curious, and he even threw in a cock of the head for good measure.

May-Rin seemed to consider her answer for a moment. "Well- I'd s'pose it's 'cause people tend to favor one and not the other. They're opposed, aren't they?"

Ciel thought the two were much too different to be properly opposed. "Yes, I would say that's true."

Bard butted in with his booming voice. "So which do you prefer? I side with madrigals, myself."

Ciel pretended to consider for a moment, peering up at the dark purple horizon as if in contemplation as he chose one to prefer. "I'd side with madrigals as well. Motets are in Latin, which I can understand well enough, but it seems to me far more patriotic to sing a song in one's home language."

Finny raised his blond head a bit and countered very civilly. "But motets are sacred. Compared to all the petty topics of madrigals, the motet raises the soul higher."

Ciel was a bit surprised at the decent solidity of his argument. He shook his head gently. "But few speak Latin in these times. Are we to simply trust that our souls are being raised by the priests who may praise heresies in a motet? Isn't that a rather Catholic notion – to place the sanctity of your spirit in the hands of another human being? Would it not be much more Protestant, to sing of your love for God, in plain English, by describing life's petty beauties?"

A grin spread slowly across Finny's face as Ciel spoke. "I reckon you may have just changed my views, Mr. Ciel. Your words do ring true for me."

May-Rin smiled brightly before chirping, "For me as well, sah!"

Bard accepted his victory with far less grace than his friends had their defeat. "I told you wankers! 'S wut I been tellin' you this 'ole time!"

May-Rin scoffed. "You have not, you've said no such thing! You just think a song's boring if you can't understand it, you fool! You don' know Latin!"

"And you do?"

And so the banter began again, and Ciel slipped back into the inaction of things, where he ate in silence.

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><p>"Last on today's agenda is –"<p>

"-The strategy meeting, yes I know."

"Testy, are we?"

"Not at all. I leap with elation whenever I get the chance to be held captive in your presence, _master_."

A chuckle. "So mature for your young age, little one. I feel almost as if I am talking to an adult."

That shut Ciel up instantly, and he heard the bark of Michaelis' laughter as the man pulled the flap of their tent back for him. Ciel walked past him with a glare, then stopped inside and waited for Michaelis to enter and light a lantern, as he did every evening.

He heard the flick of a match, the tent was flooded in fire-light, and Ciel immediately – calmly – made his way to his harem's bed and snatched up his eye patch. He felt his entire being heave a great sigh of relief as he slid it over his cloudy. Demented eye. He reveled in the sensation of his fingers intertwining with the smooth string as he tied it behind his head. Michaelis' voice shattered his trance, and he opened his blue eye (When had he closed it?).

"I don't know why you are so insistent on putting that thing back on when you're going to go to the strategy meeting anyway."

Michaelis had one hell of a point, and Ciel refused to acknowledge the presence of reason in the tent. "I am keeping it on regardless of your opinion."

The man chuckled a bit ominously. "I would not be so quick to test my kindness, little one. Disrespect is the one thing I will never grow to tolerate."

Ciel smirked and said nothing, but looked down at the flickering shadows on the ground for the briefest of moments. His head turned back up and he looked Michaelis in his impatient red eyes. He nudged his chin upward.

"Well? Are you going to incapacitate me now, then?"

Michaelis looked very bemused indeed at his choice of words, and turned away to grab the blue blindfold and stoppers behind him. Ciel silently applauded himself for so successfully displacing the man's ire. Michaelis turned and approached. Ciel stood his ground, letting his blue eye fall closed as he kept still. The dark cloth brushed against his skin, and he waited as it blackened his world the way his eyelid couldn't. Soon after, the world was devoid of sound as well when the stoppers were placed in his ears.

He kept his head up as Michaelis tested his sight and hearing, as he always did, yelling aloud and moving around in some way or another. Ciel caught the rumble of a deep voice and the faint vibration of footsteps, nothing more, and he kept still to ensure Michaelis of the fact. When a pressure against his back was made known, he knew they were done and heading out now.

As always, he kept his footsteps as self-assured as he could while blind and deaf. Michaelis, as always, kept his hand firm on Ciel's back as he led him toward the other tent. The breeze was gentle tonight and the air was warm, but Ciel only distantly noticed; he was a bit distracted, attempting to dispel the rising panic that always threatened to swallow him during these nightly blind walks toward the crowd of Protestant soldiers. Tonight he was especially nervous - he'd been far from silent today, and he had no clue how the higher-up soldiers would respond. But, as if sensing his fear through touch, the hand on his back became even gentler, even steadier as it urged him forward. As always.

When the air became warmer and the breeze fell away, Ciel knew he'd just entered the command tent. A few paces more, then the large hand slid from his back to his shoulder and nudged downward before pulling away. Ciel lowered himself to the ground and felt the dull roar of the rebel troops as they poured in after the pair.

Ciel remained straight-backed and high-headed as the council commenced. There was a part of him – too deep and honest to ever be fully acknowledged – that wondered if he was just using his pride to steel himself nowadays.

It wasn't very long before he felt the first sloppy stab of a thick finger. He turned toward the general direction of the stabber and curled his lips up into a snarl. He heard the rumble of a jeer or two in response, and more fingers, this time from all directions. This was more vicious than usual. Ciel felt his heart thump a bit faster.

What was he supposed to do every night, in this situation? He felt like a caged animal, surrounded on all sides by creatures who only wanted to watch him squirm and scream. He would scowl and snarl and roar and nip, but this only egged them on further, and they would press in closer.

It was only a matter of time before such an animal finally snapped, and bit someone.

A large thumb pressed and dug itself into his cheek as the hand attached to it seized his chin. As dirty nails carved painful marks into his skin, Ciel became hyperaware that his wrists were not bound tonight, and suddenly he had power again.

Ciel's right hand darted out and latched onto the one twice its size that had hold of his face. His fingers seized the man's wrist and he twisted with vicious, snarling precision. He instantly felt a popping crack, followed immediately by a roar of agony. The large hand swiped itself away and he felt the man stand up.

The blow came before he was ready for it. He was on his back before he even felt the pain. He didn't know if it was fist or foot; he just knew it was unbelievably powerful and it would be a miracle if his cheek didn't swell. The pain ambushed him a heartbeat later, and he gasped a choked breath in as he curled into himself on the ground.

He heard the thundering vibration of the man as he – Ciel could only guess – informed the others of Ciel's transgression. His prone body was jolted backward as a foot collided with his midriff, and he wasn't quick enough to bury the ragged scream that came tearing past his lips. He held his breath and brought his hands up to protect his head, curling up into a ball as the bombardment of blows cascaded down on him. There was noise and pain, vibration everywhere, from yells and grunts and kicks and then Ciel could hear again as his left stopper was knocked out of his ear and onto the ground.

"THIS IS WHAT YOU GET FOR STRIKING A SUPERIOR, DOG!"

Massive, deafening cries of agreement as he was stampeded. The sound, muffled and deadened for so long, was grotesquely amplified now and Ciel curled tighter, blind eyes hot.

"KEEP YOUR HEAD DOWN AND YOUR HANDS AT YOUR SIDE!"

Kick to the back, kick to the legs, to the chest, the shoulder, noisenoiseNOISE –

"CEASE THIS NONSENSE AT ONCE!"

The voice towered above all the others, rich and terrifying, and everything stopped. Ciel sucked in the choked breath of a drowning man as he silently reeled. That same voice from before, the voice that had saved him, was speaking, and Ciel did his best to listen.

"HOW ARE YOU TO PROVE TO ENGLAND THAT YOU DESERVE THE RIGHTS OF CATHOLICS WHEN YOU ACT LIKE SAVAGES? YOU CAN'T BEAR TO BE IN A HELPLESS CHILD'S PRESENCE WITHOUT BEATING IT? WHAT ARE YOU PROVING?"

Stunned, terrified silence.

"Get out of my sight, all of you! GO!"

Huge, frantic scrambling as the men piled out of the tent.

Undiluted agony throbbed in time with Ciel's racing heart. There was no part of him that wasn't screaming. But he remained silent, dazed, and he listened to Michaelis' soft footsteps approach, his harsh, furious breathing steadying like the flip of a switch.

"Oh, little one…" he heard him murmur as the man knelt down and placed a hand on his arm. Ciel moaned from the touch, despite its tenderness, and felt rather grateful for the courtesy when it promptly removed itself.

"Let's get you out of this blindfold, shall we?"

The voice was quiet, and Ciel was thankful for that as well; if Michaelis had spoken any louder Ciel was positive he would have shattered like the tinkling glass in an opera house.

The blindfold fell from his eyes after a moment, and the stopper was removed from his right ear. The sudden invasion of full sensory potential was completely overwhelming, and Ciel squeezed his blue eye closed.

He felt those two large, gentle hands turn him onto his back and probe his body softly. For broken bones, his fuzzy mind supplied. The examination did not last long, it seemed, and then Michaelis had slid his arms under Ciel's body and was lifting him up. Ciel mewled as agony washed over him once more.

"Shh, it's okay, little one. Let it pass."

Waves of pain pulsed out from where Michaelis' arms were meeting his body, and he remained still and quiet as the man began walking, giving a snare beat to the pulsations. His head, nestled in the crook of Michaelis' arm, didn't bounce as he walked.

When light gave way to black and a breeze rustled his hair Ciel knew they were out of the tent. Not too much farther to go now. He began counting Michaelis' footsteps in his head – pain-one, pain-two, pain-three – just to keep track, be aware of _something_. Michaelis remained silent and smooth-gated, and Ciel was grateful.

On step two-hundred sixty-seven, the breeze gave way to a very still darkness, and Ciel knew they were inside their tent now. Michaelis remained sure-footed as he took two more steps – pain-one, pain-two – then lowered Ciel down gently and slowly until his body met the familiar-to-the-touch blankets of his harem's bed. The arms left painfully, and a moment later the lantern flicked alight, bathing the space with shaky luminescence.

He stared up with one visible eye at the flickering orange glow upon the cloth ceiling as he listened to Michaelis shuffle about the tent without a word. The pain was still sharp and very there, but Ciel was already beginning to feel his own exhaustion as well. The combination of insistent drowsiness and sleep-depriving pain ensured Ciel that he was fit to have a rather miserable time of things tonight.

He jumped when he felt something cold against his cheek, and was surprised to see Michaelis kneeling beside him, pressing a wet cloth to his face. When had he become so unobservant?

"This temperature ought to assist in reducing the swelling."

Ciel remained silent, but nodded slowly after a moment.

"I've already looked you over for any serious injuries. You will suffer only bruising, which will be painful, nothing more."

Ciel nodded again, turning back to stare into the ceiling.

A minute of two later he heard Michaelis rise from his spot next to him. He heard a quick rustle of clothing as he changed, heard a flick that plunged them both into darkness, and heard the rustle of sheets as he climbed into his cot.

The drowsiness was not diminishing, but neither was the pain. "Michaelis?" he murmured.

The voice was soft. "Yes, little one?"

"They were especially - quick to attack tonight."

A sigh. "Yes, I know. I think your presense in weapons training today did not please all, though you did an exceptional job. It seems your origins as Queen's Watch Dog is more unsettling to the troops than I'd anticipated."

"Understandable. I hunt down their kin for a living."

Chuckle. "You have not done much of that as of late, if I recall correctly. Either way, they will have to be spoken to promptly."

"Why did you stop them? You didn't before."

The span of an inhale passed. "You hadn't given them anything before. Some of the men in that tent, including Henry Barrymore, the man who dealt you that first hit, learned a move in swordplay just today, and you were their teacher. Treating you the way they have in not justifiable anymore."

Ciel scowled into the blackness. "And it was before?"

"You were a captive before, an enemy. Someone who, in all likelyhood, had slaughtered someone they knew by name. Deny it all you like, but you've witnessed first-hand the atrocities that befall our sect - some of my men have turned very hard, bitter from loss. They think you're the head defender of that which they hate. They want blood, revenge. But you gave them something today - something that will arm them against your supposed allies. They cannot call you an enemy anymore, and they most certainly cannot treat you like one. Not to that degree."

"I would rather be treated as an enemy than as a friend, Michaelis."

There was a soft chuckle. "Too much of a gamble for you, is it? I think if you were to give it a try, you'd find that friendship is in fact very tolerable."

Ciel shook his head and winced when he did. "Nothing comes of friendship. With an enemy one at least gets a challenge, and a victory if one plays his hand right."

The chuckle was louder this time, more insistent. "How sweet is victory for one alone? Everyone needs a friend, little one, even you."

"Friendship is not needed. It's only desired."

"Time will demonstrate the contrary to you, rest assured."

Ciel scoffed in the dark. "If all that friendship offers is arguments over madrigals and motets, I'd say it's safe to assume you will be the one proven wrong with time, Michaelis."

"Petty talks are one of the sweetest boons friendship grants. Don't you remember your own argument that you made to those We-Three's* this evening?"

"Tch. Of course not. I didn't mean a word of it, I was simply defending a case, that's all."

A laugh. "I see. Either way, there is truth in what you said. You may think you did not take your own words to heart, but the truth does not lie to us, you know."

Ciel ground his teeth together for the briefest of moments. "Whatever. I'm going to sleep now." He shut his eyes, knowing full well that unconsiousness would not carry him away tonight.

A final chuckle. "Alright, little one. Sweet dreams."

He responded with silence. It was after perhaps five minutes of futile attempts at sleep and dull, pulsing throbs of pain that the still night was broken.

"Oh, and little one?"

Ciel's eyes, both covered and visible, opened. "What."

"I am terribly sorry I let these injuries befall you. It is very unbecoming of a friend."

Ciel growled. "You are not my friend, Michaelis."

He could hear the smile in the man's voice. "I suppose only time will tell us about that, won't it?"

Ciel did not respond, and not one more word was spoken until the black of night gave way to the rising sun. Ciel did not sleep a wink.

* * *

><p><strong>*W<strong>**e Th****ree: a picture, universally ****familiar by the time of Shakespeare around twenty to thirty ****years later,**** that depicts two fools, the title of which, "We Three", suggests that the viewer is the third fool**

**PLEASE REVIEW! I NEED FEEDBACK!**


	8. Acquainting

**YUS, summer at last. My updates should be coming along at a much steadier rate, now that sports champoinships and finals and We-Survived-Another-Year parties are out of the way. But I wanted to make up for the stupid hiatus I went on, so this is roughly twice as long as my last one. **

**As far as some of the content in this goes...agh, this thing really had a mind of its own, I hope you guys don't hate me. If you do, well...heh, it's only going downhill from here, ya'll. Any questions, just review or PM me.**

**Update - jeezus, that's embarrassing, realized an hour or two after updating this chappy that where the quote usually goes, I just put (insert quote here). See, kids? That's what happens when you procrastinate, people on the internet think you're stupid.**

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><p>Counting Dropping Heads<p>

Eight: Acquainting

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><p>"Doctor, they are very proud, these nobles; but we common dogs are proud too, sometimes. They plunder us, outrage us, beat us, kill us; but we have a little pride left, sometimes.<p>

Charles Dickens

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><p>Ciel tapped his fingers on the edge of his white iron cushioned chair as he waited for the tea to arrive. Tanaka was getting on in years, and while Ciel understood the lag, it was not a lag that was becoming of the Queen's right hand man when he had guests over. He sighed noiselessly, doing his very best not to allow his eye to roam about the bright, decadent sitting room.<p>

Alois, on the other hand, appeared entirely at ease across from him. They were only alone for a matter of minutes before his blonde friend delved beyond simple pleasantries into the depths of the latest gossip, Ciel in metaphorical tow.

"Oh my word, you've heard about William's new affair, haven't you?"

Ciel sighed, audibly this time. "You know I don't bother keeping up with things like that, Trancy, he has a new fling every few weeks."

Alois visibly deflated. "Oh. Well. This one's very cute. Almost looks like a girl though, you know? More pretty than handsome. Never heard his name before, must not be too prominent."

Ciel took a deep breath. "That does seem to be his type. Any pretty thing with a hole to offer."

"Oh-ho-ho!" Alois chortled, leaning forward in his seat. "How vulgar, I wouldn't have expected that of you! Yes, he _is_ quite the little fuckstick, not good for much. Really just his religious speeches. He's correct on every mark when it comes to those."

"The speeches he does in his church? Down in south London?" Ciel glanced over as the door opened, his butler backing into the room with the tea tray. _Finally_. He nodded discreetly at Tanaka as the gray old man bowed lowly.

"Yeah, I've popped by a couple of times." Upon catching Ciel's raised eyebrows, Alois backpedaled. "Hey, I like trying out new churches, there is nothing wrong with that!"

His cup was set in front of him just in time for him to give Alois a silent, disbelieving reply, taking a long sip of his Earl Gray with raised brows. Tanaka exited silently.

"Honestly! Come on Ciel, I'm not some garrulous whore who goes around sleeping with clergymen!"

Ciel snorted into his next sip at that perfect choice of words, earning a scowl from across the ornate table. "No, of course you're not, Alois."

Alois huffed. "_At any rate_, I appreciate his speeches. He often focuses on the difference between Catholics and those bloody heretics. Clarifies why we're on the golden path, you know. Very well cited, he often incorporates quotes and edicts of past popes and distinguished bishops and such."

Ciel nodded easily. "Yes, I've heard a few of his speeches before. They were very moving."

"Just – gets you filled with passion, you know? Those Protestants are all depraved little dogs, there's no hope for the lot of them."

Ciel smirked. "That's why we do what we do, Trancy. _Someone_ has to clean out the kennel."

Alois laughed. "Yes I know, I just…I wish all of England could go out, on a crusade, you know? Those Protestants have no clue what _reality _is, if we were truly pious we would eradicate that fucking demon race completely."

Ciel nodded, taking another sip of his tea. "They all are going to hell, perhaps it _would _be nice to one day hand them an express ticket."

* * *

><p>Ciel was frustrated.<p>

"I s'pose it's…I'm just a spot confused at the technique, Mr. Ciel sah."

"That is more than permissible, Aberline. The bow takes most half a lifetime to master, it would be absurd to expect any one of you to even scratch the surface in a single day."

The man tried again to bend it properly. And failed, of course. Ciel sighed noiselessly.

"The most essential part to remember is not to rely on the strength of your arms to bend it. Focus on laying your body into the bow, pressing the whole of your weight into the horns."

He nodded loyally and began again as Ciel turned away, both eyes impassive and carefully blank.

Over the past two weeks, Ciel had become familiar with a great number of Protestants as he continued to assist them all in their weapons training, and had taken quite a liking – his own version of a liking, at least – to a large handful of them. Fred Aberline was a tall, able-bodied young man sporting blue eyes, sandy brown hair, and a faceful of moderately handsome features (and a romantic persona grand enough to rival that of Don Quixote). At twenty-two, he had been engaged to be married to the beautiful – from what Ciel had been told – brunette woman who had born his child but a month previously. He had been young, in love and so happy that even the ugliest sights would glow – before reality had taken him by storm.

Due to his quixotic passion for justice in his line of work – which largely consisted in apprehending masses of unruly Protestants and other heretics – Aberline often found himself at the wrong end of a mouth much too large, but had failed to comprehend the degree of consequence his outspokenness could have – until he opened the door to his large London apartment one glowing day to be met with the grotesquely mutilated bodies of his wife and tiny baby boy. They'd been slashed and stabbed, their clothing ripped to shreds and bodies vilely exposed, eyes gouged, skin ripped and folded back like pigs' in a butcher shop. The message EXCERSIZE LOYALTY TO YOUR NATION'S REVERED SOVEREIGN was scrawled on his kitchen wall in large letters, in his family's blood, which covered the floor, the tea table in the corner of the room, the loveseat he'd bought as a gift to her two weeks before, their bodies…

He'd never seen so much blood at one time.

Aberline had told him all of this a week ago, with the weary soberness of one who has truly _lost,_ and Ciel had immediately respected the man he'd previously dismissed as starry-eyed and naïve. The man had believed in the miracle of humanity before this, and somehow such a heavy dose of firm reality had only fortified his resolve. Ciel admired his commitment.

They'd first spoken to one another when the man had jumped at the chance to help the _child_ he'd seen struggling – _only slightly _– under the burden of a massive log that'd had to be hauled across camp for wood. Aberline was always kind to everyone at camp, deserving or no, and was peculiarly quick to defend any stranger he spotted who seemed in need of a hand to assist them.

People like Aberline were much too pure to survive long, Ciel had to admit. But _what_ a pity that was.

He walked on in front of the line of bow-wielding soldiers without seeing a single one of them, lips pressed thin, both eyes refusing to squint against the orange of the afternoon sun as the leaves crunched beneath his boots. The leader of this whole mess surrounding him was throwing away precious time and resources. Which was stupid. Which confused the hell out of Ciel because he'd spent enough time in the presence of Sebastian Michaelis to know that the shady man was _nothing_ if not a genius. He _had_ to address this issue immediately.

He could see him demonstrating to a male soldier near the end of the line – blond, last name West, just another brick in the wall – how to properly bend a bow. Ciel felt his frustration flare up just from _watching_ – before there was a sudden _jolt_ of perception and instinct, and he stopped moving forward just as something raced across his vision with a _swish_, from left to right like the words of the bible, close enough to his face to rustle his bangs. He heard a hollow, woody _thunk _in the distance to his right as the arrow embedded itself into the trunk of a thick, sky-high oak fifty meters off.

For a moment Ciel was frozen, mind sprinting to catch up with whatever the hell had just happened. Then, his head snapped to the soldiers at his left, most of whom had not even noticed a thing. But there was a cluster who _had_ noticed and they were all sending fervent glances toward the soldier at the center of them – a fuming, scowling Grell Sutcliff.

_Did he _really _just try to murder _me_?_

At the thought Ciel smirked, turning fully to face the man twenty feet away with that long, bright red hair, posture stiff and furious. He made sure to exaggerate the luxury and arrogance of his own. His voice was low and mocking.

"Once again, Sutcliff, your aim leaves much to be desired. If I were a man in your current position, I would shelf the archery for good. You're rubbish at it."

Ciel's smirk grew nearly to a full-blown grin when Sutcliff slammed his bow to the ground with a sonorous _twang_, turned on heel and stomped out of the clearing without a word. Those surrounding men turned to stare after him openmouthed, before looking back at the impaled tree ahead of them, splinters of bark littering the ground beneath the arrow. Ciel, however, turned and resumed his pace as though nothing had _just happened. _

Death played a very active role in his lifestyle; to have it swish clumsily past his face did nothing but give him a little something to laugh about.

He was nearing Michaelis thirty soldiers down, still comically determined to teach BrickInTheWall West the art of the bow in the half hour that remained of this evening's lesson. Ciel caught the glint of the man's black hair and the robotic mannerisms he always adopted while speaking with an inferior, and rolled his eyes.

"Mr. Ciel, sah!"

Ciel's head snapped to the side once again at the sound of that shrill voice. Leaves crunched like broken glass under his feet as he stopped, catching sight of the hair.

"Yes, May-Rin?"

The sharp eyes seemed to smile with her as the soldiers on either side of her carried on with no notice beyond a fleeting glance. "To be quite honest sah, I'm having a right bit of trouble even bending this sodding bow."

He walked toward her and shook his head, hair ruffling in the breeze as he did so. "Don't worry about it, we won't be practicing with the bow again, and this session is nearly over."

Her smile shrunk a degree as she cocked her head. "But…sah, perhaps I'm mistaken, but I could have sworn I heard Mr. Sebastian say at the beginning of this lesson that we'd be working with the bow over the next coupla weeks…"

He spoke as if addressing a particularly dense child, though May-Rin was not the object of his condescension, not in the least. _Pawns_. "Yes, he did say so. That was a simple miscommunication however, he has no intention of continuing lessons with the bow. I would not concern yourself with further efforts today, as the door on this weapon is closing for the time being."

Some of the soldiers on either side of her seemed to breathe a sigh of relief at this, dropping their bows to their sides and grinning at one another. The doubt clouding May-Rin's face cleared at the irritated but absolute declaration in Ciel's tone, and she nodded once. "Yes sah."

She was an excellent soldier, not the type to question orders. He turned and continued on. May-Rin was a disconcerting mishmash of bubble-headedness and sharp intuition. All he knew of how she'd come to be here, eluding society's heavy hand in some unknown English forest, was that Michaelis had personally recruited her.

Over a mock sword duel a week and a half ago, she'd explained lightly that she used to be something of a private assassin, working for a vast pool of clients with notoriously deep pockets. A fire-haired vixen with a crossbow and no trace of mercy – how she had found herself in that line of work, Ciel could only guess. But as the Most Honoured and Revered Majesty Queen Mary's reign had drawn along into it's second, third, fourth year, May-Rin's clients had acquired steadily more religious motives behind their desire for her unique expertise. She had not cared – a death is a death, after all, regardless of religion – and she had continued to do her job with skill and finesse. Until one nobleman had ordered her to do away with some nameless Protestant man, his wife, and his young son.

"They are all Protestant; they all must be cleansed in the fires of Hell."

(Ciel had almost had difficulty defeating her in their match as she spoke, so numbed was he by her words. For the rest of the day, every time he blinked he would see –)

With heart pounding and mouth dry, crossbow poised at the ready over the edge of the building for a solid quarter of an hour, she'd finally sighed and known that she was incapable of this – she was not a monster bred for this degree of atrocity. She'd left that rooftop, crossbow in hand – there was no sense in throwing down such a valuable weapon, abandoning it in a heat of righteous passion though she might have wished to – and willfully relinquished her hold on the only source of wages she'd ever known. She was living in the slums, half-starved but thankful, by the time Michaelis crossed her path and inquired politely whether she might desire to put her _most unique skill set_ to a nobler use.

Under Michaelis' authority, she's told Ciel, death was more than it had been before. It was not a mere body count, a number, but something entirely different that blew every other notion away. Now _people_ were _real._

Ciel disliked holding conversations whose topics delved deeper than the weather and power and cold statistics. So it had proved to be quite the struggle to be friendly toward May-Rin for a few days following, and he'd operated like a moving statue whenever forced to interact with her in training. But before long he'd simply fortified his resolve that _he _was in the right, not her, and that it was of course possible to be fond of ignorant people. One is easily fond of children, and puppies, after all. May-Rin had no idea what she was talking about, and was nearly as delusional as Aberline.

Ciel could hear Michaelis' silky viper voice now.

"No, you will be able to bend it effectively if you step _here – _no, don't strain your arms to that degree, that only hinders your ability to accomplish your goal. Now bend it."

Poor BrickInTheWall looked to be sweating bullets under his general's scrutiny. Ciel kept his face resolutely smirk-free; perhaps Michaelis was aiming simply to make his soldiers uncomfortable with this whole thing? It certainly _was _funny to watch this one squirm. But no, Michaelis had a bigger heart than Ciel's shriveled excuse for one, and not even Ciel would have the patience to toy with them like this.

"See, if you step _here _instead of –"

"–Michaelis."

The man turned to see him standing there as if no storm could make him stumble, and smiled back politely at the soldier. "Excuse me a moment, West."

The blonde fellow offered a tiny, saucer-eyed nod, looking for all the world like he'd just survived Satan's tortures through God's mercy alone. Ciel kept his face expressionless as he and Michaelis turned and began walking away from the line.

Michaelis' voice held a trace of impatience. "What is it?"

Ciel turned to look the man in the face – and realized Michaelis' towering body conveniently blocked the sun from his view. The man's face was impassive, save for the tiny glint of irritation in his red eyes as he waited for Ciel to answer him. The younger kept his face straight as he casually shifted to walk on Michaelis' left, so the man would be forced to stare into the scorching sun during their conversation. Simple pleasures, you know.

He tilted his head up to stare at Michaelis with hard eyes.

"_Why _are you wasting time teaching them about the longbow?"

Michaelis blinked. "It is a valuable skill to master."

Ciel rolled his eyes, shaking his head irritably. "It takes the average person _decades_ to master the bow."

Red eyes narrowed slightly. "With great teachers to lead them, these soldiers may master it at a much quicker rate."

"Unfortunately Michaelis, they do _not _have great teachers at their disposal, they have you and me. And they cannot afford to waste years mastering one weapon. I have already told a number of them to give it a rest for the day."

His eyes flashed, a spark running through them. "These soldiers are a bright bunch, and they will not take –"

Ciel stopped walking and cut him off savagely. "There are a select few who can master weapons such as the longbow in a matter of months – these few are _not_ among this mob of crude and uneducated soldiers. As of this moment they can hardly wield a sword. If you want your men to survive, _stop _wasting time with fruitless labors and. _Train. Them._"

There was a moment of silence between them before that old, infuriating smile crept up on Michaelis' lips. "You appear to be rather passionate about the well-being of my soldiers, little one."

If Ciel could have born fangs, he would have. "I am _passionate_ about eradicating stupidity. Now I advise you to do away with these pointless lessons – they are a colossal waste of time."

In response, Michaelis placed a hand luxuriously over his heart and inclined his head slowly. It took a moment to recognize this gesture as a servant's bow. It had definitely been a while. Michaelis peeked up at him with a smirk, red eyes full of something nasty and menacing.

"Yes, _my lord._"

Ciel gritted his teeth, turning away and starting off at a brisk pace. "It's _your_ funeral –"

A large hand caught his wrist and he twisted out of the hold before consciously realizing anyone was touching him. He turned back, and the smile on Michaelis' lips was gentler now. His voice was soft, his own version of sincerity. "Let us return together. To inform the troops that this _pointless_ lesson has come to a close."

Both eyes, blue and white, flamed as Ciel turned away and began walking again without a word. He heard the autumn leaves crunching underfoot as Michaelis followed closely behind him.

"By the way, little one –" Michaelis was beside him blocking the sun and offering his eyes shade once again. Ciel did not turn to look at him. "How long did it take you to master the longbow?"

Ciel unclenched his jaw, voice carefully measured. "Four and a half months."

"Hmm. That's truly impressive. You would no doubt be considered to be among those 'select few' you spoke of, would you not?"

A deep, silent breath. "Yes, I would. As would you, I presume."

He laughed. "Many thanks, you flatter me. I suppose I would; I mastered it in four months. You took only a couple weeks longer than I did to perfect the weapon."

He could hear the smirk in the man's voice, and looked up at the gloomy, overcast English sky, a small part of him praying it would drop down and crush him, duties be damned.

"May I have your attention, everyone!"

Ciel started at Michaelis' volume, looking down and realizing they'd reached the line already, soldiers lowering their bows – Sutcliff still markedly absent, he acknowledged without smirking – and giving their black leader their rapt attention.

"You've all done fantastic job today – the bow is by no means a straightforward weapon to master, and you have born the challenge nobly. This concludes our lesson for today."

They dispersed with a fluttering of confused noise, and within minutes Ciel and Michaelis were standing alone in the clearing, shadows of the trees consuming their vision as the sun descended beyond it, total silence ringing in their ears like it had always resided there. It seemed to pan out like this quite often, with the two teachers talking alone in the blackness of dusk, long after their pupils had vanished, after their uncouth sunlight had followed after them.

Ciel was still fuming at Michaelis' sarcasm and complete lack of understanding. His stomach burned like a furnace though the late fall beckoned goose bumps from his arms out into the chill evening air.

He glared into the endless darkness, refusing to speak or shiver or move an inch, refusing to shatter this silence that just seemed to _belong _for the sake of one tall, infuriating young man. Refusing to ripple the stillness of the water for the sake of someone drowning just beneath its surface.

All of it stayed, just like that, until Michaelis shifted, releasing something from his throat that was both a sigh and a chuckle. And it was as if that sacred, fragile stillness had never been there in the first place.

"We ought to head back to the camp."

Neither moved. There was an energy in the dark air now, one that refused to be ignored, to remain mere _energy._ The furnace was growing larger, warmer, Ciel's hair standing further on end. His heart began to pound, and he feared that he…that…

He heard Michaelis step toward him in the darkness, and his pulse sped up. He caught Michaelis' scent, of pine and of leather and of something distinctly his own, and his breath hitched silently. He felt a large hand rise to stroke his cheek with its warm fingers, and the feather-like touch pulled his heart up to his throat, choking him. His eyes widened, and then they were close enough that Ciel could see his face, the smoldering fire in his red eyes, and the furnace in his stomach collapsed into an open flame, igniting his skin, lapping at his bones.

Then their lips met – the softest of touches to send a spark through Ciel's burning veins, and it didn't seem like they were standing in the dark anymore, in the stillness, in the silence, not at all. Everything was too bright, too alive, too _real_.

Neither moved his lips, neither reached for more. Both just felt that warm connection to the other, reveled in it, a single soft touch crumbling the barriers if only for that one small fraction of time in that small, secluded little patch of frigid blackness, a moment to which only the age-old oaks and furs and pines were passive witness, their silent, towering bodies reaching out past the night of their little clearing, beyond it, above it…

A hundred years or a few seconds passed before their lips parted with a small, soft sound. All was quiet, all was alive. Ciel saw Michaelis smile in the dark. His voice was a whisper.

"We ought to head back to the camp _now_."

Ciel nodded jerkily, dazed and unsure of what to do.

"Oh, and in case you were curious, I _do _take your suggestions seriously. We will hold no more lessons with the bow, at least not tomorrow.

Another nod. He didn't notice he was shivering until one of Michaelis' coats draped itself over his shoulders. Without thinking he wrapped the huge coat tighter around his body, burrowing in the heat.

"Thank you, Michaelis." His voice, dull and business-like even to his own ears, seemed to echo off the walls of blackness that contained the clearing.

As did Michaelis' deep laugh, rich with shady grace and something darker and more tender. "Please, call me Sebastian, little one. Everyone who knows me does."

Ciel felt a smirk pull at his lips, despite it all. "What happened to 'master'?"

The laugh was louder and fuller even than the last one as they both began making their way out of the clearing side by side.

"Similar to all the rest, 'master' never existed, my friend. Welcome to reality!"

The trees were the only ones there to watch them leave.

* * *

><p>They broke through the tree line into camp's view with nothing but a few feet of frigid air between them and headed toward the tell-tale noise and rattle of the suppertime soldiers without a word. He could feel Michaelis smiling beside him.<p>

Fantastic. At least one of them knew what to feel.

Ciel _didn't _know, so he slid easily into autopilot, grabbing his bowl of grub with the dark man at his side before heading to their usual log, slumping to the ground beside it. He drowned out the sound of the happy savages surrounding him until he heard nothing but the ringing in his own ears. He lifted the wooden spoonful of mush to his lips without tasting, smelling. Another spoonful. A third. A fourth.

He felt a nudge against his arm and he turned sluggishly, muscles made of sand, eyes focusing shakily after a moment upon Michaelis' warm smile. Those red eyes smoldered with some kind of hot tenderness.

"Little one." His voice was quiet and warm and intimate, and Ciel didn't shiver when a soft breeze chilled him nearly to the bone. Did he still have Michaelis' coat?

"Ciel, I think you deserve, more than many here, the right to sit among us as equals as we dine."

He blinked. Had Michaelis been saying something? He couldn't feel the weight of the man's jacket, where had it gone? Had it been snatched back while they'd been walking in the dark? Why did he have such trouble with these things?

The striking face in front of him got closer, and a silky voice poured out of it very quietly. "Little one? Are you feeling alright? Your eyes…"

Yes, Ciel could only imagine what his two horrid, disjointed eyes looked like right now. He remembered once catching sight of them in a mirror while being dragged back to the cage. There had been nothing to heave up save for acid, but he had thrown up anyway after his eyes had met their nightmarish twins in that reflection. He'd only felt worse afterward.

Therefore he swallowed back the bile threatening to overcome him with this stunning man in his face.

The stunning man who was now waving a hand in front of him, snapping his fingers, alarm in his eyes. He saw it like a distant memory.

Michaelis must have taken his coat back during their return – he trembled in spite of the fiery glow in the corner of his convoluted vision.

He could also remember what it felt like to have both his eyes in working, blue order, and how toward the end it had not made a difference at all whether he'd had his sight or not. But it _had _seared like fire when that priest had swung that mace around in a full arc and it had connected with a powerful thud. He remembered the bright robe the priest had donned, like a Cardinal choosing his new Pope.

He shook and trembled. Michaelis definitely took his coat back. And why shouldn't he? He had no obligation, no reason to lend his warmth to someone like Ciel, who deserved nothing –

He remembered everything going black on the right side as he screamed and screamed till his throat bled and that red priest preached and preached and preached and it had all seemed so grand, so dramatic that if there was indeed a God in existence he had to have been present in that stone room with them both, beholding the scene with holy approval.

_Long live the queen long live –_

"_CIEL!"_

He looked up slowly and saw Michaelis' fiery eyes, his huge hands on Ciel's arms. They were both standing in the dark beside a tent, the glow of the campfire in distant view. Michaelis had risen from his seat…and moved them both away from the crowd. So he hadn't been gone for _too _long this time.

(_He was back thank God and he'd been _this close _to falling into this man's arms and way of life but he was back now and he was himself again and he knew what was right and what was real –_)

Ciel blinked, and scowled slightly for good measure. "Were you saying something?"

The wide red eyes before him blinked once, twice, then the mouth below them released a bark of a laugh that seemed to Ciel to be a tad hysterical. He narrowed his eyes a degree, standing taller.

"What exactly is so funny, Michaelis?"

Michaelis laughed again. "And just like that, he's back!" He sobered on a dime and frowned, red eyes pulling at Ciel. "What just happened, little one?"

Ciel didn't break the eye contact. "I don't know what you're talking about. I was pondering something, you didn't need to interrupt. We ought to return to the fire, Michaelis. I don't believe either of us have finished our supper." He turned and began walking, only to gasp and twist away when his wrist was grabbed.

"_Do NOT touch me so easily!"_

There was a minute intake of breath from Michaelis' end, and Ciel glanced back long enough to catch the man grasping the offending hand with just enough favoritism to know he'd done more than twist away to break the contact. Fleeting curiosity wondered if his reflexes had managed to break bone, but Ciel was already walking toward the campfire, his back to the night and Michaelis both.

"Wait –"

Ciel kept walking.

"Little one!"

_Ignore him._

And he did, squeezing his eyes shut for the smallest of moments before returning a steely, mismatched gaze to that torch of light in front of him.

The crunch of boots, and then the voice behind him was much closer.

"_Wait,_ Ciel!"

So he turned sharply and pinned the man with such a hard stare that there was no possibility of somehow overlooking his "STAY BACK" message.

But because the man was not socially inept, the only viable option was that he was blatantly ignoring Ciel's wishes to _ignore what just happened and leave me the hell alone_. Because he took a step closer, leaning down to Ciel's diminutive height so they were eye-level, expression closing in on affectionate concern. Ciel maintained his stare, still as stone.

"Ciel." Michaelis' voice was soft and very gentle. "Ciel. I desire nothing more than to know what just happened."

His reply was stripped and cold, a doctor's diagnosis. "A desensitizing response. It's irrelevant. Let's return to our dinner."

The wind picked up for a moment, blowing Ciel's hair to the side and making him shiver even while Michaelis remained solid in front of him, as if the warmth in his red eyes insulated his entire body. "Desensitizing response? Were you aware of anything while in that state?"

"No."

"Not…even when I was leading you away from the fire? You stood on your own, were you aware –?"

"No."

"Is this the result of a health issue? Something you were born with?"

"No. It was acquired – some two years ago."

His eyes seemed to spark. "Is it –?"

"Michaelis, I said it is irrelevant. It occurs on very rare occasion, and is not hazardous to those around me in any way, unless my sitting still for a moment is a dreadful sin. We're going to return to dinner now."

Michaelis stared for a moment, something undecipherable in his eyes, before straightening and setting off at his side with another bark of a laugh. "Getting to know each other quite well today, aren't we?"

Ciel rolled his eyes, not that Michaelis could see. "Weren't you saying something, before – all that happened?"

A chuckle. "Please, call me Sebastian. And I was merely requesting that you sit among us, as an equal. In lieu of dining on the ground."

Ciel raised his eyebrows slightly. "Really. Well I suppose I will then. Thank you Mich– Sebastian."

When he glanced over, Michaelis was smiling ahead of him, the glow of the fire shining in his eyes. "You're quite welcome, little one."

So when they reached the warmth of the bonfire again, Ciel fished his wooden bowl up from the ground and took a seat next to Michaelis on the log. The Protestants remained oblivious to it all, still bickering and teasing and praising, although the ones who happened to glance over and spot the alteration in seating arrangements seemed to grin a little more cheerfully, laugh a tad louder.

Ciel was one of them, at last. A simple change in seating, and even he could feel it.

He finished his stew quickly, surfacing to observe the rebels, and immediately felt the heat of a stare from his right. He glanced over, already knowing who was responsible –

And locked eyes with Grell Sutcliff. Who resented Ciel. Who had tried to murder him just an hour previously. Who looked more furious and hateful than Ciel had ever seen him. Ciel could see it in the thinness of his lips, in the set of his brows. And in the expression of his eyes, which had time and time again informed Ciel of this man's capacity for guiltless slaughter. He felt a smirk creep up his lips as he stared back.

Sutcliff wanted to murder him, right now. And he would attempt to in the future. Of course, he already had, and had failed laughably, but he hoped his efforts would gain craftiness, give Ciel a bit of a challenge. Keep them both sharp for war, whichever side Sutcliff ultimately chose to fight on.

The man fortified his glare, added more coal to the fire in his eyes and Ciel wondered for a fleeting moment why Sutcliff was so pitted against him.

Ciel flashed him a poisonous smile before turning to the man beside him, still eating, gingerly holding his wooden spoon in his right hand. He felt no trace of guilt. "Are all your Protestants here locally recruited?"

Michaelis looked up, swallowing. "Are they all from the London area, you mean?"

Curiously, the burn of Sutcliff's eyes grew hotter. "Yes."

He nodded. "Obviously every Protestant Londoner does not reside here, but I have not expanded the recruiting pool beyond the reaches the city."

Ciel smirked. "How do you contact them without detection? The queen had spies everywhere."

The feel of Sutcliff's stare scorched as Michaelis laughed. "Such as the one seated beside me? Never fear, I have exemplary recruiting methods not even my most trusted elite know of – I usually kidnap them from city allies, make them my slaves, and introduce them to the luxuries of sleeping on the ground in a shitty sheepskin tent every night. They all fall for that one."

Ciel chuckled. "Fool-proof, I'm sure."

Michaelis stood. "But we must get on with it."

Ciel sighed noiselessly. _Strategy meeting. _If there was a single way to plummet one's moderately good mood…

"Mr.'s Sebastian and Ciel!" Bard's gravelly, booming voice rocketed into Ciel's ears, in that way that would have made most grown men jump a foot into the air. He made sure to conceal any small trace of surprise, turning to face the approaching soldier with measured slowness and spotting Sebastian doing the same in the corner of his vision. His voice held the same silkiness it always did in polite conversation.

"Yes, Bard?"

The man stopped and grinned widely, blue eyes sparkling a bit as he raised his hand to brush his tousled blonde hair back from his face, cigarette seated in its usual pose behind his ear. "Good evenin' sahs. I hope I might inquire your 'pinions regardin' tonight's suppah – it's a new recipe, you see, I ben experimentin' a spot, feelin' mah way 'round new ingredients."

"Oh, is that quite certain, Bard? What kind of ingredients would those be?"

"Well I – agh, I s'pose it's a bit of a secret, sah."

So Sebastian turned up the charm a little, flashing a friendly grin. "Oh come now, surely you can whisper it in my ear. No soul here shall be the wiser."

Bard's eyes shifted from side to side a moment as he debated with himself, before smiling in that rugged way of his. "Agh, o' course I'll tell you sah! Don't know what I was thinkin', feelin' the need to be all secretive and shit."

So he leaned over and took a moment to whisper the _secret ingredients_ in his leader's ear, and Ciel had a feeling he was the only one who noticed the way Sebastian blanched and the smile froze on his face.

Ciel easily contained his chuckle. Obviously, whatever Bard was telling him was unsettling, to put it lightly.

The two parted at last, Michaelis straightening once again to his domineering full height with a grin so entirely composed and friendly, Ciel could have imagined the earlier sight.

"Well. Tonight's stew _was _rather good, but I would think it wise to stay true to more classic ingredients for the time being – to work on fostering your talents before developing alternative methods for food preparation, you know."

Bard smiled good-naturedly, and laughed after a moment. "I can cert'nly respect that, sah. Even I would be inclined to'dmit mah decision was a hair on the radical side of things. But thank you for your time, and I hope you and Mr. Ciel appreciated mah efforts."

Sebastian smiled. "We both most certainly did. May you and your mates have a pleasant night."

"Thank you sah, thank you."

Ciel was the first of them both to turn away. Michaelis was right on his trail, complexion as ashen as Ciel had first suspected. He smirked, cutting his eyes over to the side.

"What did he tell you?"

Michaelis pursed his lips, looking almost ill. "I…would rather save you the stomach ache. Some things are better left hidden."

Ciel turned to face him, the pair still walking with the fire (and the equally hot sensation of Sutcliff's vicious glare) to their backs. "Hah! And you criticize _me _for following the same mantra!"

Michaelis shook his head, eyes absurdly wide. "Just trust me Ciel…I will celebrate the day the world knows of the atrocities that have befallen our sect, but – _no one _should know what I have just heard."

Ciel looked toward the night in front of him once again, head shaking. "Tch. Whatever, then don't tell me."

Michaelis seemed only half-aware of Ciel's presence at this point, voice a grumbly mutter. "Should have fired him ages ago…why did I hire him to begin with? What brought me to figure he'd make a fair cook in the first place?"

Ciel smirked, recognizing that this instance could properly be pinned with a _thinking out loud _label. "I have not the foggiest clue, Michaelis."

The man blinked in the dark a few times as if attempting to shake off the images that seemed to weigh so comically heavy on his mind. He released a deep breath. "Well. At least we saw first-hand how the soldiers are beginning to view you in particular, at this point."

Ciel narrowed his eyes, seeing where the man was headed. "What do you mean by that?"

Michaelis' lips quirked up into a smile. "'Mr.'s Sebastian _and _Ciel, I would like your opinions on tonight's dinner.' Some of them are beginning to view you and me as co-leaders of the cause, rather than seeing you as a servant or captive of their chief."

He rolled his mismatched eyes. "_Or _Bardroy is unfortunate enough to hold slightly less intellect than all the rest, and you are letting him misrepresent your soldiers' views."

Red eyes sparkled. "Regardless, we are on the right track."

Ciel raised his eyebrows. "The right track? Just what is the _right track_, Michaelis?"

The man smirked. "Oh, I think you might have a good solid clue, little one. But it is not worth fretting over, the future will come when it comes."

He scowled. "I refuse to be treated like a naïve little child, Michaelis."

His smile widened. "Please, call me Sebastian. And in case you may have forgotten, Ciel…" He trailed off, making a subtle show of examining Ciel's height.

Ciel sneered at him. "My appearance means nothing, as you very well know. You are not my parent, and I will not tolerate another deciding my fate as though it were his own."

Michaelis inclined his head slightly with a soft smirk. "It would be unbecoming of a man to scheme and connive against his friend's wishes and interests."

"Well seeing as I am not your friend, that statement promises me nothing."

Michaelis looked up at him with a smirk, "Can you _really _say we have no bond to one another at this point, little one? Hmm?"

The black, silent clearing flashed through his mind with the brilliance of fire. He opened his mouth, then closed it again as his _we are nothing more than acquaintances _died on his tongue.

Fortunately Michaelis saw none of this, momentarily preoccupied with holding the cloth flap of their tent open for the both of them to enter. But he heard the silence, and chose only to chuckle as Ciel walked past him without a word.

It was only then that he realized he'd had Michaelis' gigantic coat on his shoulders this whole time. He did not gasp, or laugh, or even widen his eyes.

He stood stock-still in the center of the tent as the lantern in the corner was lit. He closed his eyes as Sebastian snatched up the blindfold and stoppers in his left hand. His sigh wasn't quite silent enough as his vision blackened.

"I understand how frustrating this process can be, but I assure you it is necessary for the time being."

Ciel raised his eyebrows, despite knowing Michaelis could not see them. "The time being?"

A chuckle. "Yes. I hope to eventually have you as a part of my planning team, but among the elites there is currently some suspicion of treason. If I were to invite you, of all people, into the meeting right now, they would instantly suspect you. And if I were to defend your presence, they might even suspect _me_."

Ciel mulled everything over, smirking outwardly. "One can imagine the paranoia _that _would ignite."

"Yes, not the most gratifying of images."

"Have you any idea who the traitor may be, if one does exist?"

A sigh. "Suspicion rots away at the strongest armies. I must trust in the loyalty of my soldiers."

Ciel frowned. "Trust no one."

He chuckled again as the hearing in his left ear ceased to be. "That is your motto, indeed. But tell me, Ciel." He listened with bated breath as Sebastian walked around to his right. The man's voice was a whisper. "Do you trust me?"

The hearing in his right ear was then also diminished with the second stopper – how had he tied that blind fold with one hand? – plunging him into a world of silent blackness, but Ciel responded nonetheless. "I trust _no one_."

The tunneling rumble of Michaelis' chuckle was enough of a reply, and Ciel understood all that was said in it.

He stepped forward, permitting his body to be led through the darkness, the silence, by the large, capable hand on his back without another word.

* * *

><p><strong>I looove reviews! FLAME MEH BEHBEH!<strong>


	9. Converging

Counting Dropping Heads

Nine: Converging

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><p>"Who could sit upon anything in Fleet-street during the busy hours of the day, and not be dazed and deafened by two immense processions, one ever tending westward with the sun, the other ever tending eastward from the sun, both ever tending to the plains beyond the range of red and purple where the sun goes down!"<p>

Charles Dickens

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><p><em>Nononopleasestopnonotthat -<em>

But it didn't matter, did it? He'd learned long ago that pleading and begging accomplished nothing. If anything, it made them more determined.

The priest above him had eyes that burned. Hot with fury and hunger.

_This is purging._

Eyes hot enough to melt his skin.

_Be cleansed of your ungodliness, heathen._

Hungry eyes, greedy eyes. _Taketaketake_, he was a fountain of blood and agony and filth, he knew it was true. This priest was taking everything from him, and all he felt with every vicious plunge was more blood, more agony, more filth.

_You must be cleansed, body and soul._

The eyes were not the worst of it, but they made everything _so much _worse. Amplified it all.

_Blood spilt is repentance for your sins._

_PleasenonostopstopSTOP - _

He did not. He went on, kept going, going, going, going, goinggoinggoing until completion an age later, and then he was gone from him and Ciel was a broken, sobbing heap on the stone table. There was nothing, _nothing _he had left of his own now and he didn't want to live anymore.

He'd been stripped bare, and even that was not enough for them.

He writhed on stone, screaming his agony until blood crawled into his mouth and his vision.

_Relish in the bliss of repentance._

Long live the queen.

* * *

><p>Ciel awoke with a gasp so quiet it was virtually inaudible.<p>

Nonetheless, either Sebastian was an incredibly light sleeper or he'd already been awake, for the man spoke at once.

"Are you alright, little one?"

He stayed silent, hoping Michaelis would think he'd never awoken

A no-go. "Ciel, please do not ignore me. Are you alright?"

He took in a gentle breath. In. Out. "I'm fine."

"What caused you to rouse so promptly?"

He scowled. Sebastian knew full well what had woken him up. "Nothing."

A pause. "May I ask what you dreamed about?"

Ciel closed his eyes. "I will not gratify you with an answer, regardless of whether you may ask or not."

A quiet sigh, of patience or something resembling it. "I expected as much. I ought to let you get back to sleep then."

The rustling of sheets from Michaelis' cot, and Ciel opened his eyes, a different blackness greeting his vision. "Sebastian."

His soft voice pierced the brief silence. "Yes?"

"Could – tch. Never mind. Go to sleep."

"No, please, continue."

"I don't want to. Go to sleep."

"…Little one."

He paused, then released the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. His fingers threatened to fiddle with the scratchy blankets of his harem's bed. "Could you – Agh. Stay awake for a while, talk to me a bit, will you?"

There was no pause though Ciel thought he heard a small amount of surprise in his quiet voice. "Of course, little one…Well. I'm sure now it won't be long before you may enter the strategy meetings – unhampered by blindfolds and the like of course. Even in the meetings now, though you obviously are unaware during the time, you are mentioned with only positive voices."

"Hah! Then some voices are keeping wisely silent. Trust me when I say not everyone appreciates my presence."

Ciel could almost taste his confusion. "What do you mean, little one?"

Ciel let a cynical chuckle fill the dark void between their beds as that _real_ darkness began to wane, if minutely. "You trust your soldiers much too readily, Sebastian – you insist they share your every opinion. Sutcliff, for instance. He is a prominent rebel, he holds much influence over the others. And he is firmly opposed to my involvement here."

There was a small pause. "Are you sure of this, Ciel?"

Ciel laughed. "Oh yes, quite."

Michaelis hummed. "I'll be sure to address this during tomorrow's meeting. When were you made clear of his animosity toward you?"

"One week ago. Remember our bow and arrow lesson?" _First_ _murder attempt. Next day he tried to kill me using the same method, then yesterday there was that butcher knife – _but Sebastian didn't need to know all that. He kept his voice light, because this really _was _a light topic of conversation. Threat of death was a joke. "But you most certainly will _not _address that at a meeting, tomorrow's or any day's, Sebastian. That would accomplish nothing except to make him more aggressive."

"No it would not. You must remember, Ciel, that I am the leader of these soldiers. They must listen to me. Grell _will _obey my orders."

Ciel bit his tongue hard to refrain from saying it, then sighed quietly. "Whatever. They _are _your troops, you're entirely at liberty to do what you will with them."

Michaelis stood firm. "Yes, I am and I will. You may not be accustomed to the way in which friendship works, little one, but I have no such excuse. Any man who cannot defend his friends is not worth his salt."

Ciel rolled his eyes in the darkness, vision never shifting. "I of all people do not need defending, Michaelis. You're beginning to sound like Aberline."

Sebastian snorted. "No one needs defending, Ciel, they desire it. That is doubtless your belief, correct? I remember holding a similar conversation, some time ago. But you always fail to see that while a brick may be strong, a wall is a _stronghold_."

Ciel huffed, rolling his eyes at the irrelevant analogy. "I suppose we'll have to agree to disagree on these sorts of issues, good sir. Or we may just be forced to lead our own righteous crusades against one another."

He chuckled. "You must remember, noble lad, that I have a significant head-start, what with my long-established standing army and all. Do not threaten my hard-earned honor."

"Tch. Details. I could defeat you single-handedly any day."

A chuckle. "In your own words, we'll be left agreeing to disagree on some issues."

Something flickered into Ciel's awareness, and his lips quirked up a bit. "Speaking of that, you never did tell me what Bard put in his stew some days ago."

He detected a certain playful stiffness in Michaelis' pause. "Oh. That."

Ciel chuckled. "Yes, that. Care to divulge?"

Sebastian sighed and spoke lowly after a moment. "You were aware that the meat in the stew was that of an elk?"

"I am now."

"Yes, well. Bard was one of the hunters who took the elk down and brought it back to camp. But evidently he also brought something of the bull's aside from its carcass."

Ciel rolled his eyes. "Spit it out, Michaelis."

"Patience is a virtue, my friend. From what I can gather, there was a large pile of feces maybe a meter from where it fell. The poor beast shit itself in its death throws, you know."

Ciel's eyes widened in the dark. "You aren't saying –"

"–So Bard, looking to try some more…_adventurous _seasonings, scooped some up with him and put it in last week's stew."

Ciel let out a breath, openmouthed with disgust. "Bard. Put shit in the stew."

A bark of laughter. "Yes, he certainly did. Lots of it."

Ciel shook his head, hair rustling against the bed covers underneath him. If he had been made of lesser stuff he might have gagged. "Why…why would anyone do such a thing? To another human being?"

Sebastian laughed. "Worse horrors have befallen good people at the hands of other human beings, rest assured little one."

"Tch. Don't be stupid, I know that. I would advise you ask him to step down from his post, before he inadvertently murders this whole camp."

A deep chuckle. "Oh, this was not the first time something of this sort has occurred, and it most certainly will not be the last. Six months ago there was an incident with a few raw mushrooms – it was a gift from God that we were bound on relocating the next day. We all made…too much noise."

Ciel let out a quick huff of breath. "Bard fed you all _mushrooms? _How did you survive the night? A few of those species, the ones that don't _kill you_, that is, cause hallucinations when eaten uncooked – "

" – Oh yes, I know. Like I said, apparently the Almighty was on our side that night, because we were not discovered."

Ciel ran a hand over his face, sighing in something similar to exasperation. "And you _kept him as cook_? After _that_?"

"Yes. And look, the most dangerous thing he has fed us since then is elk shit. Small miracles are the ones you ought to be most grateful for."

Ciel sighed, fighting against the urge to laugh. "This is…not funny. Did _you _eat the mushrooms?"

"Yes, I did."

"So you experienced hallucinations, along with the rest of your soldiers? What if you'd though you were all going into battle? What if you all had started killing one another?"

Sebastian laughed. "Oh, nothing so serious. From what I remember, I spent my inebriated few hours having a conversation with Virgil. You know, the author of the Aeneid?"

Ciel rolled his eyes. "I know who Vergil is, Sebastian."

"You do? Have you had the pleasure of reading his work?"

Another roll of the eyes. "Of course I have, it's essential."

"Splendid! Well. Nonetheless, I thought I was speaking with Virgil. One of my troops told me the next day that I'd been talking to a tree the whole time."

Ciel allowed a small laugh to break through as a smile bit across his face. "I can only imagine the context of the conversation. Did you come back to your senses believing yourself to understand the scholarly riddles of Aeneas?"

Sebastian chuckled. "Not at all. We talked about Dante's work, actually."

Ciel smirked. "Ah. So your illusion told you further secrets regarding the circles of hell? Fitting."

"Hah! Wrong again. We talked about the beginning of the work, actually. I wondered why Dante was more terrified of the wolf than he was of the lion or the leopard."

Ciel raised his eyebrows. "Of all the questions to ask Virgil about the _Inferno_, and you ask about the _wolf _at the beginning? The symbolism explains it, you dumbass."

Sebastian laughed. "I don't regret the directions in which my hallucinating subconscious mind led me. I asked my Virgil, 'why would Dante fear the wolf over the lion? Why did he plead for your help only when the wolf appeared?' And he answered me. He said, "Why might a man fear a wolf more than any cat? I'll lay aside the allegories of Dante's tale to give you what you seek."

Ciel said nothing.

"He paused for a minute or two – or perhaps it was an hour, I've no idea – and said, 'When a wolf fights, its heart's in its jaws.' The answer was so simple."

Ciel played the scene over in his head (questa mi porse tanto di gravezza con la paura ch'uscia di sua vista ch'io _perdei la speranza de l'altezza_), still wondering how on earth they'd come to be having this conversation. "Fantastic. And your point is?"

Sebastian chuckled. "One little dog has more right to be feared than the supposed _king of the jungle_, Ciel. It was quite a remarkable discovery at the time."

Ciel smirked. "I'm sure your _overcoat _was a remarkable discovery at the time, Michaelis. Lions are more deadly than wolves, you know. The wolf is nothing special."

"You are mistaken, little one, lions really never even fight to defend their territory. Their size and reputation keeps most away. On the flipside, the wolf clamps down and never lets go. It sets its sights on something and will not rest until its pray is at its feet. Did you know that it is some relative of the wolf, the name escapes me, that manages to taunt and steal from the lion, time and time again?"

Ciel rolled his eyes. "Does it _matter_?"

Michaelis laughed. "Of course it does Ciel, ridiculous questions don't suit you. But…for your sanity's sake, I suppose I'll leave the issue aside for the time being."

"Good. It's about time you were done with your inane rambling."

Sebastian laughed. "Have you become adequately drowsy from out useless chit-chat?"

Ciel smirked, silently reveling in the weight of his eyelids. "I suppose." A pause. "Thank you, Sebastian."

He could hear the smile in the man's quiet voice. "Of course, Ciel. Happy to help."

He frowned a bit, but said nothing. The silence fell into sleep, before too long.

* * *

><p>"<em>Got another one. Three days ago."<em>

"_Hmm."_

"_Big crowd. Probably forty or so. All sorted, now."_

"_Hmm."_

"_Most of 'em burned. Handful, though, we got to keep. Sent 'em to the priests. Right good time, they'll be converted somethin' beautiful."_

"_Hmm."_

"_Ciel. Are you even listening to me, Phantomhive?"_

"_As a matter of fact, Alois, I am. Why would you think otherwise?"_

"_You're being…uncommonly boring, today."_

"_Well. Sorry to disappoint."_

"…_Everything alright, mate?"_

"_Alois. Everything is fine. Don't ask stupid questions."_

"_Shut up. I know somethin's wrong with you, you're not tellin' me."_

"_Or perhaps there is nothing to _tell_, Trancy. Things have been rather low-key lately, I have no reason to be jumping out of my seat with excitement."_

"_Things haven't been low-key for me. I haven't had my hands this full since I was first assigned the job. No way you haven't been busy."_

"_Why is my work schedule of such significance to you, I wonder?"_

"_It's not, tosser. It's called _caring_. Doubt you've ever heard of it."_

"…_There is _nothing wrong_, Trancy. Lay off and tell me more about your gig."_

"_No, I think you're ly – "_

"–_How many converts did you manage?"_

"_Oh. Well. Nine. Nine went in, at least."_

"_Hmm. Who are the rehabilitators? The usual?"_

"_There's a new one, he'll be workin' 'longside William. Very attractive. Tall dark and handsome type, you know."_

"_Hah. Oh yes, right up your ally, Trancy."_

"_Hmph. As a matter of fact, he is. Name's Claude Faustus. He's from Bordeaux. French."_

"_Splendid. What does he specialize in?"_

"_Word has it he relocated here because Bordeaux's getting overrun. Fucking humanists, you know."_

"_So what does he specialize in?"_

"_Well ain't it obvious? Specializes in the opposite of that, don't he? Cold blooded, that one."_

"_Hmm. He'll fit right in here."_

"_Damn right he will."_

"…_Alois."_

"_Yeah."_

"_I'm dreaming. Right now."_

"_Yeah, I reckon you are, mate."_

"_Well I want to wake up now."_

"_What's wrong with you? Somethin's upsetting you."_

"_I already told you, haven't had much work lately. That's all."_

"_You can't lie to me. I'm you. You know that."_

"_You don't know what's wrong with me. So obviously I can."_

"_It's not right. Let's go together. You and me."_

"_What are you talking about?"_

"_With him. He's good. And he needs to fucking burn."_

"_I don't know what you're talking about –"_

"_You do. Don't lie. You know where he's headed."_

"_Faustus?"_

"_Of course not, he's not real. I mean, he is to me, but not to us. You know who I'm really talking about."_

Don't meet his eyes. _"…Who –"_

"Rise and shine!"

The sudden awareness was jarring, almost painful, like running headlong into a brick wall. Ciel's eyes were both open at the boom of Sebastian's voice, heart pounding and breath racing silently, and he had control over himself before Michaelis had a chance to look twice.

Sebastian smiled. "It's about time we got a move on. Guns today."

Which meant they were relocating tonight. Ciel blinked once, staring up at his typical dark clothing, his striking, cheerful features, before removing himself from the harem's bed. "Alright. Why so early, then?" The gray of dawn was visible through the tent cloth, and a thousand birds were singing like a choir.

Michaelis chuckled above him as he stumbled into his trousers. "We want to make the most of these days, Ciel. It's the only time we get to be loud."

Ciel shook his head, adjusting his baggy white shirt before picking up his blue overcoat from the corner. "And how old are you again?" he muttered.

"Nineteen, as you very well know, child."

"Tch. Act your age then."

Sebastian scoffed, holding the tent flap open. "_I _am. Are you?"

Ciel rolled his eyes and ducked out of the tent, Sebastian close at his heels. The biting September chill greeted his face and he burrowed into his coat a little more, listening as Sebastian sped up to walk alongside him. He glanced around at the trees surrounding their little camp, looking more desolate with each passing day as they walked, the crunch of their footsteps sounding harsher in the chill, like the snap of a frozen blade.

"I suggest we work on more swordsmanship today. Advances, parries, there's still much to learn." His voice sounded brittle in the cold, and his breath tumbled from his mouth in a cloud of mist.

Sebastian's voice was his opposite, solid and warm against the approaching winter. What month was it now? "Well. _I _suggest we shoot around with guns today, get practice with that while we can. What good are swords if the troops die before the enemy is in a sword's range?"

"What good will a gun do in defending these troops from other guns?"

"It does a right lot of good, if an enemy shooter is killed before he can make his mark. Offense is the best defense, Ciel."

Ciel remained silent as they both cut through the brisk air toward the roaring noise, in the direction of breakfast.

* * *

><p>"You will attend your first meeting tomorrow, at the new location. Unanimous decision."<p>

Ciel paused, spoon frozen en route to his mouth. "Is that so."

"Yes, it is. Even Grell Sutcliff voted in favor. I'm beginning to think perhaps you were mistaken about his estimation of you."

Ciel grunted non-committedly.

"You are very well-liked here, you know. You are one of us."

Fighting a shiver, Ciel forced himself to take the next hot bite of bland stew very calmly. Because if one of Sebastian's assumptions were false, then they were all up in the air.

* * *

><p>"Load!"<p>

Massive shuffling, the fumbling clank of metal.

"Aim!"

_Raise your arms, men._

"FIRE!"

The deafening BANG of thirty guns.

Taking a peak between the elbows of West and Foxe – passive observers, those two; there was a reason they were next to each other during every drill – Ciel pursed his lips at the site that greeted him on the other end of the provisional shooting range. About every other meter-wide wooden target had a hole in it somewhere. The soldier's rate of accuracy was improving, exponentially.

"Lower your weapons!" Ciel himself was not surprised at how well his voice could carry – he'd known full-well for years now – but Sebastian had laughed to him at supper about the soldiers' shock the first time he'd been permitted to take the reigns.

Every man lowered his musket, staring straight ahead as Ciel cut through between Foxe and West to stand facing them all, back to the cold, dying forest. He stayed silent a moment before speaking in a low, solemn tone.

"You're doing well."

The face of every soldier brightened absurdly at that (Ciel did not _do _praise) and he refrained from rolling his eyes. "Your accuracy rate has increased, and due to the naturally unpredictable trajectory of the musket, such a quality can make one a force to be reckoned with. You've accomplished something rare."

From their expressions, it seemed he was gushing far too much. Had it been Sebastian speaking before them they might have been expecting a group hug right about now. He cleared his throat.

"However. You all need to focus on _loading time._ The queen's men are _not _going to wait twiddling their thumbs while you load your next shot. It's a time consuming process – make it so that it consumes _less time_."

They all stared, expressions transparently wide-eyed.

"How? Practice. This is your only day to do so – take advantage. Fire at will for the next two hours."

They obeyed without a word, grabbing up their patches, every one of them making sure Ciel was entirely out of range before raising their guns. Sebastian was back at camp, demonstrating to Bardroy how to cook a proper supper. Such a thing wouldn't take long, he'd said, so it seemed about time to recall him to the shooting range (he was growing tired of these men looking at him as if he was the Second Coming). He began walking off, listening as the fire of bullets began at his back (loading time was good. But not yet good enough to save them.)

He was out of the clearing, in between a huge oak and a huger pine when he heard a BANG much closer behind him, and a large chunk of the pine's bark exploded. While facing no one but the forest he allowed his eyes to widen.

He was…really trying this? The echo of gunfire a hundred yards off never ceased. He smirked, honestly amused, before spinning around on his heels, leaves crunching and twigs snapping beneath his feet, to face Grell Sutcliff, already almost done reloading. At least the man had something going for him.

He crossed his arms over his chest and did not move as Sutcliff raised the musket, and BANG. Bark peeled off the oak to his left.

Sutcliff was around seven meters ahead of him, snarling and glaring, and Ciel didn't bother to reign in a chuckle.

"Good reloading time, Sutcliff, you've been practicing. However, as always, your aim is shit, so a weapon like a _musket _will never do much to compliment your skill set."

Another BANG, and he heard this one _whiz _two feet above his head.

"I'll give you two more shots. This is good practice for you anyway."

BANG. The leaves and dirt exploded a meter before his feet. Ciel waited patiently as he reloaded. BANG. This one flew markedly off-course (muskets were _so useless _for target shooting, he'd known this from the start, was Sutcliff just _that dense_?), shooting off the bark of a tree five meters to his left.

He turned to Sutcliff, noticing for the first time in weeks that his disjointed vision had focused, somewhere along the line. "Right."

Sutcliff moved frantically, fumbling hastily with the rod and another patch from his coat pocket. Ciel was before him then, wrenching the gun from his grasp with a force that obviously surprised the man, because his lip pulled up into a sneer.

"So Sutcliff." Ciel began disassembling the musket, twisting off the barrel at a speed he made sure to be blinding_._ "Why is it that you keep continuing with these attempts?"

When he spoke, he spat, eyes flashing in the afternoon sun. "You do not deserve to address me, dog! _You Catholic swine!_"

Ciel felt his lips tug up into a smile. "What do you intend to do about it then, Sutcliff? You can't continue as you have, nothing will get accomplished." He continued twisting each piece of the gun apart – bands breach lock stock – throwing each one at Sutcliff's feet until there was nothing in his hands but the patch holding the gunpowder.

Sutcliff's nostrils flared, and Ciel almost raised his eyebrows when he tore off his left glove and launched it to the dirty forest floor. "Ciel Phantomhive, you are an outsider and a traitor to the Protestant resistance. You have besmirched the names of those you dare to dine with, to meet eyes with, as if you are on equal terms. I challenge you. To a duel. Three days, choose your sword. Do you accept, Phantomhive dog?"

Ciel smirked at him, and he could feel his own eyes dancing. With a regal nonchalance, he held Sutcliff's gunpowder patch in front of him before flicking it to the brown, dead leaves on the ground between them. It was not a glove – he had no glove to drop – but nothing around here seemed all that conventional anyway.

"I accept."

**If there are any typos I'm super sorry. This was uploaded in about two minutes, more or less. Please review! :D**


	10. Ensnaring

**HAIHAI BEEBEES! Here's my next chapter, hope you like it! Most of it was written on muh iPod trying to kill time on roadtrip, so I gueeess that can be an excuse for any typos ;D Just wanted to thank you all for reading and reviewing and following and favoriting and aaaalll that, it makes me so happy and keeps me motivated to know people like this story. ^.^**

**I DON'T OWN KUROSHITSUGI, THERE'S A SHOCKER.**

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><p>Counting Dropping Heads<p>

Ten: Ensnaring

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><p>"More King and Queen, more Bull's Eye, more lords and ladies, more Long live they all!...throughout, Defarge held him by the collar, as if to restrain him from flying at the objects of his brief devotion and tearing them to pieces."<p>

Charles Dickens

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><p><em>This was something to show off, something to brag about.<em>

_Mummy! Mummy, look how far away I am!"_

_He waited as her tiny form spun around, sand spraying and golden hair flying to catch the sunlight, and went rigid. "_CIEL_! What are you doing, get _back _here!"_

"_How the hell did he get that far out?" His father, equally tiny from this distance, always spoke politely, so why was he talking with the word the peasants used all the time? Wasn't _hell _a bad thing to say?_

"_I've no idea! I swear, we look away for ten seconds and –"_

"_Father, you and Mummy can't swim but I can! Look how far away I got, I'm like an island!" He was beaming, smile stretched wide so his face hurt. And the whole time he paddled away at the cool, clear water around him._

_He was like one of those islands his parents and their friends talked about excitedly amongst themselves in the parlor room, the special ones that only special people like Hernando Cortez could get to. Not that he'd ever say that to his parents – he was English, so he wasn't supposed to like Spanish people, no matter how special they were. _

"_Ciel, get back here this _instant_! It is not safe that far out –"_

"_Don't worry Father! I'm safe – I'm an island out here! No one can get me!" Why were they so upset? This was the greatest thing he'd ever done for himself – even better than the time he'd convinced Tanaka to let him stay up and eat the chocolate imported from that Aztec place until he felt sick. Because this time he got to do what he wanted and he didn't even feel sick afterwards._

"_Ciel, _get back here! _I am _not _going to tell you again!"_

_But what were they going to do? Out here not even his earth-bound parents could reach him. And that was his definition of invincible. _

"…_No! I want to stay here forever! I'm an –"_

"_Ciel, you are _NOT _an island! The water is not safe where you are. You _MUST _come back here now!"_

_The water seemed plenty safe to him. He felt safer here than anywhere else, really. So he stayed where he was, treading the salty waves with too much ease to be fair (as his mother had worded it on several occasions). He never wanted to come back._

* * *

><p>The move that night could only be described as a tense, paranoid retreat.<p>

Every rebel carried something. Most lugged sacks of clothing and housing on their backs as Ciel did, bent far over to keep from falling to the cold, filthy ground. A brave few were pulling wagons and carts full of camp supplies. Ciel felt the dull drum of his pulse as he walked through the frigid night alongside Sebastian, who was dragging a cart with far too much silence and swiftness to be fair.

No one spoke. It was one of those rare moments, occurring only once or twice in any normal person's life, where every surrounding individual was entirely united, all speech swept aside for the sake of action. The only sound in the dark was the crunch of footsteps and hoot of owls.

Ciel clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering. It was getting colder every night. He willed himself to walk faster, bent low over himself, knowing it was the best method of fending off the bite of approaching winter. Sebastian increased his speed slightly to match his pace, wagon wheels crunching leaves and snapping twigs as it rolled along heavily.

Things went like this – freezing and tense and silent – for maybe an hour, maybe much longer, before May-Rin jogged up to the front of the caravan to hand some papers off to Sebastian. She never said a word, and somehow Sebastian managed to snatch them up and keep the pace with his wagon one-handed without so much as a lick of real effort. May-Rin fell back into the crowd again, leaving Ciel and Sebastian side by side at the front once again.

Ciel ignored the curious pounding of his heart as he asked, in the echo of a whisper, "What are those?"

His heart continued to pound so loudly he was sure Sebastian could hear it. But then Sebastian answered, whisper-soft. "Newspapers. May-Rin nicked them from the nearest town. For very obvious reasons, it's vital that we stay up to date."

Ciel nodded, and said not another word. They reached their new home, drained and exhausted, by dawn that morning.

"I have not seen the inside of this tent since first being brought to camp."

Sebastian chuckled, somewhat solemnly. "That certainly is a funny way of seeing it, isn't it? Looking at the command tent with a new set of eyes – in every sense."

He lifted the flap for the both of them, and Ciel stepped forward. Lanterns were situated in the corners, making the walls glow a golden orange. That mahogany desk remained in the middle of the tent, covered in papers and maps and books, and the bright red rug below their feet was plush and much softer than he last remembered.

He turned back to see Sebastian staring off to the side, gaze miles away, and his own brows furrowed.

"What's wrong?"

Sebastian's red eyes flicked to his a moment before looking to the left. "Nothing is wrong, little one."

"Bullshit."

Michaelis smirked. "How vulgar of you, Earl. What would your lovely queen say?"

Ciel stared at him. "Something is bothering you. If you're going to tell me then just do it now. I'm not going to hassle myself to dig it out of you."

Sebastian suddenly met his gaze again, eyes scorching, and smirked. Ciel stepped up to him.

"Are you going to tell me then?"

Ciel barely had time to react – Sebastian dove down, caught his lips with his own, and pulled away before Ciel had time to blink. So then he blinked.

"What -?"

"We shall discuss it at tomorrow's meeting. Tonight is about celebration." His lips, so quick to come and go, pulled up into a smile that almost reached his eyes.

"…What are we celebrating?" Ciel's head felt empty all of a sudden, like all his thought had poured out his lips and into the man in front of him.

Sebastian laughed. "Your initiation, of course! You are one of us now!"

Ciel just blinked, and Sebastian ducked down to steal another kiss, catching Ciel's bottom lip between both of his own. He felt heat surge through him, slow and smoldering, felt time stop and felt it fall a hundred years ahead of him, before Sebastian released his hold. He opened eyes he hadn't realized he'd closed, and blinked up at Sebastian, who smiled gently.

"Do not panic. Everything is just fine. All is well."

Ciel hadn't realized he'd begun to do just that – his own version of panicking, which involved shutting off _everything _he had.

"Take a deep breath."

Ciel just obeyed. In. Out. One more for good measure. In…Out. He felt his thoughts returning to him, trickling back into his skull like water through a leaky pipe.

"Very good. You are with me, here. Now. Correct?"

Ciel looked up, swallowed hard, and nodded.

Sebastian's countering grin was blinding and it grounded Ciel and sent him spiraling all at the same time. "Excellent. Everything is alright, Ciel."

Ciel furrowed his eyebrows at that, and gasped as arms wrapped around him, pulling him to a very solid chest. He remained frozen for several minutes as Michaelis rubbed circles into Ciel's back and held him close.

It was enough to pull him the rest of the way back down to earth, because he found himself sighing, trying not to roll his eyes.

He wriggled his way out of Sebastian's hold, batting the man's huge hands away and taking a step back. "There is no need to coddle me like an infant, Michaelis."

Michaelis smirked at that, eyes deep with…something. "That, my dear Ciel, was called a _hug_. You might find it is a very commonplace action amongst friends."

Ciel rolled his eyes. "I know what a hug is, Michaelis. And I don't like them."

Sebastian smirked. "But you like kissing, correct?"

Ciel narrowed his eyes, ignoring the fluttering of his heart, like a bird trying to rip its way from a cage. "I don't _like _anything of the sort."

Sebastian smiled, eyes turning to the entrance. "We'll just have to make sure of that later, won't we? But for now, it's time for you to join the Protestant ranks."

As if on cue, they rushed in, all ramble and rumble, looking to be in a good mood despite their lack of sleep. They continued to stuff the golden tent with noise even after they were all done packing in.

Sebastian raised a hand, and the motion alone sliced the volume in half.

"Settle down, everyone, we're beginning." The rest of the noise fell silent, and there were sixteen or so eager faces staring at the two of them. The elite crowd he'd never seen before, but had shared a vicinity with for hours in a day. He recognized them all – Sutcliff, Barrymore, Scott, Johnson, Foxe, Aberline, Finnie, West even, he knew their names. It was strange to see their familiar faces after their identities had been kept a mystery for so long.

"In accordance with what we discussed last night, we have invited a new member into out midst."

Sebastian spoke with a warm, showy smile to the small crowd of rugged soldiers in the soft glow of the command tent. Ciel was acutely aware of the rich texture of the rug under his boots as he stood stock still at Sebastian's side, looking every one of them in the eye. A great number of them smiled back at him, to his bewilderment. Near the back, Sutcliff's face remained impassive. Ciel held in a smirk.

"Mr. Ciel, as you all know, has been working with you on weapons instruction for a number of weeks now. We have decided, Mr. Ciel, that you have earned a place amongst those in this tent."

Ciel turned, looking Sebastian solemnly and squarely in the eye. "Thank you, sir."

Sebastian smiled ostentatiously back at him. "There is nothing to thank, Mr. Ciel. Has it not been you, these past weeks, who have instructed my soldiers on how to hold their own against an enemy, and with more skill than I could have done so myself?"

He turned to glance happily at his soldiers, who whooped and cheered immediately, grinning at him. Some even moved closer to give Ciel a quick pat on the back or arm.

_How many of them had taken pleasure in tormenting him, just a month before?_

He bore it all with a smile, which made most of their faces split in half with delight, and their cheering dragged on for a moment of two.

Sebastian stepped forward, hands in the air and smile firmly in place. "Alright, calm yourselves!"

It was a relatively short time and they were in control of themselves again. Ciel clung to his small grin, suspecting they'd devour him if it slipped from his face for any brief moment. Sebastian took another step forward to speak, and then they were silent and attentive.

"We have serious matters to discuss on the morrow. However! Tonight's meeting will be dedicated to welcoming our new member, and in celebration and thanks of another successful relocation!"

He pulled two bottles out from behind his rickety wooden desk, and the troops exploded with cheers.

"May we all be blessed by the Almighty to triumph in this war of faith!"

Ciel stepped to the side as a couple troops hacked through the crowd with over two dozen wood cups, depositing them on the table as the others continued to roar their pleasure. Sebastian beamed them a thousand-watt smile as he filled each to the brim with the amber elixir, sparkling in the golden lantern light. Ciel blinked and bit back a gasp as Sebastian reached out and clasped his arm, pulling him close to mutter in his ear.

"Just smile and take a cup. Few sips now and again, and they will not notice you're not getting drunk."

Ciel kept his eyes on the rabid, roaring wolves before him, and flashed them as big a smile as he could muster. He reached across Sebastian to grab up the closest cup from the desk, and raised it in front of them all as if in a toast. The cheering turned to a tempest when he downed it in one, throat turning to embers, and he looked up to flash them all a cocky smirk.

He glanced to the side and saw Sebastian easily concealing his surprise from the crowd with a warm, animated smile. He snatched up his own cup from the table, long pale fingers wrapping around the dark wood. He lifted the cup just as Ciel had, smirking warmly at the beasts in front of them, before shooting it back in one go. He threw his cup to the ground, quirking eyebrows up at Ciel as the troops thundered.

Sebastian raised his arms up, stepping away from the mahogany table. _Have at them, my friends._

Ciel wisely moved away as they swarmed the desk, hands and bodies and voices everywhere like flies. He felt the heat of a lantern at his back, and turned to find he was in the corner of the tent by the entrance, Sebastian grinning at his side.

"How did it taste?"

Ciel made a face. His chest burned. "That was some of the worst liquor I have ever had the displeasure of putting in my mouth, Michaelis."

Sebastian laughed, barely audible over the roar of celebrating men – _elite Protestant soldiers, _for Christ's sake. "It serves its purpose, and that is sufficient for them."

"Does it not strike you as irresponsible, to allow your most trusted soldiers to waste away for the night?" He had to yell to be heard, and even then Sebastian had to lean down and turn an ear to him. He smiled.

"I think you and I are enough to keep these people protected. Or do you not trust in your own abilities?"

Ciel narrowed his eyes and countered, voice rough like he'd downed acid and sandpaper along with that awful liquor. "I never said anything of the sort. Drunks are loud. These men are loud enough sober!" He increased the volume of his shout to demonstrate that point. Four feet away, the men had not quieted down yet, even to a dull roar.

Sebastian laughed. "That may be true, but we can afford a touch more volume here – we've only gone deeper into the woods! No one can get us out here!"

Ciel blinked. "…Seems very childish, doesn't it? I think you may have reached your quota of drink for the night already, Sebastian – you're not thinking clearly!" He smirked up at him, and something shattered loudly back in the crowd, making them all go absolutely nuts.

Sebastian chuckled. "It's not childish, it's simply awareness of isolation! We are approximately fifty miles from the nearest human life!"

Ciel huffed, feeling a tad uninhibited and not feeling properly concerned about that. "Regardless! We have over a hundred vengeful rebels hiding in the woods with us, a giant pile of guns and knives, and you think it wise to throw alcohol into the mix?"

Sebastian smiled, red eyes distant. "Everyone deserves the right to escape reality on occasion, Ciel! The Lord knows _you_ do!"

Ciel pursed his lips at that. "I am…just fine the way I am, thank you!"

Sebastian smirked. "Please, stop! You are much too convincing for one feeble mind to withstand!"

Ciel shook his head. "You are infuriating!"

Sebastian barked a laugh. "And you are not? You refuse to tell me anything, to give anything away to me, even as I throw every card I have out on the table!"

Ciel furrowed his brows, eyes flashing. His mind was feeling a little too unruly and ambiguous for his tastes right now. "You give nothing to me! You're all tricks and deception, and you don't know how to be sincere!"

Sebastian shook his head, and Ciel swallowed against the furnace in his throat and chest. He was buzzed, from a single cup of that liquor. He felt himself frown, before he remembered the company he was in, and he realized he shouldn't worry so much.

"You know full well when I am sincere, Ciel! I can't even tell if you, on the other hand, are my ally or not! Everything about you is hidden away!"

Ciel frowned fully. "I am –"

"Hello, Sebastian!"

Just the voice, just that familiar flirty tone made his proverbial hackles raise, and Ciel narrowed his eyes before turning. Grell Sutcliff was standing behind him, hazy eyes locked on Sebastian's calm ones, his posture all flirt. Had they been talking long enough for the rest of them to get sufficiently smashed?

From the volume – which he'd been blocking out for a while – they definitely had.

Sebastian's voice was smooth and polite. "Hello, Grell! I hope you and your friends are enjoying yourselves! Did the men already find the other bottles behind the desk?"

Sutcliff smiled brightly, and his voice did not slur. "Yes, we did! Everyone's having a wonderful time! We're all delighted to have Mr. Ciel here with us at last!"

Ciel stiffened, and watched as Sebastian smiled. "As am I, Grell! He is a wonderful addition to our force!"

"Yes sir, he is!" Sutcliff's expression remained breezy and almost charming as he continued. "And _you_ are such a wonderful leader you know, Sebastian!"

And Ciel was _physically _in the middle of this. It was nauseating, so he stepped back to stand beside Michaelis. Sutcliff started and blinked as if just noticing his presence, and his smile widened, eyes warm and cloudy.

"Mr. Ciel! Your instruction has been invaluable to me. I hope to one day improve my aim to rival yours!"

And _that _was a disconcerting sentence if there ever was one, so Ciel fought back a laugh and just smiled back at him brashly. "Well Sutcliff, I will certainly do everything in my power to help you reach your goal. I love to see improvement in those under my instruction."

Sutcliff's smile widened, like a wolf baring teeth, and his eyes glinted. "Your assistance is most appreciated, Mr. Ciel. I don't know where we would all be without you!"

Sebastian chuckled airily beside him. "Probably still fumbling around with sticks under my pitiable guidance."

Sutcliff pouted showily. "Oh Bassy, don't sell yourself so short! You are a fantastic teacher, don't let anyone convince you otherwise!"

He flicked Sebastian a wink, and Ciel's eyebrow twitched. Was that why…? He'd figured Sutcliff's affections were more fleeting than that. Huh.

He could think of no other way in which to test the veracity of this new theory. So he took a deep breath…

And looked up at Sebastian with flirty, loving eyes. "I agree, _Bassy,_ you really _mustn't _be so hard on yourself!"

He wound a slow arm around Sebastian's waist, gnawing on the inside of his cheek to keep a straight face, and watched as Michaelis blinked his confusion.

"Well. I suppose I only…speak the truth. On that matter."

Ciel chanced a glance at Sutcliff's reaction, and _bingo. _His face had gone beet red, his fangy smile frozen on his face like someone had clubbed him from behind. He smiled widely, turning to him. He made sure to keep his grip on Sebastian nice and tight.

"I'm so glad there's _someone _else on my side, Grell. He really does so much for us both. Don't you think?"

Sutcliff opened his mouth, and no sound came out. He tried again, but Ciel couldn't hear him over the roar of celebration (drunken foolishness) in the background.

"Pardon me, could you repeat yourself? I couldn't quite catch that."

Perhaps the fury Ciel's voice brought on was what melted Sutcliff's features back to some semblance of the breeziness of five minutes ago. "He does indeed. Do much for the both of us. _Too_ much, some might say."

Ciel smiled and rang out a laugh, amusement and queasiness battling it out in his muddled head. "Yes, isn't that the truth? It's one of the many reasons I'm _so _delighted to finally be apart of his – erm, ranks." He laughed as if _just _catching himself.

That seemed to be enough. Sutcliff muttered a vague reply, a hasty farewell to them both, and turned to rejoin his friends, one of whom appeared to be unconscious on the ground some eight feet away. Ciel removed his arm from a very bemused Sebastian and let the revoltingly pleasant expression collapse off his face. He looked up to meet Sebastian's bewildered red eyes.

"Care to explain?"

Ciel smirked and shook his head. He reached up to pat Michaelis on the cheek once or twice. "Nothing you ought to worry about, _dear friend._"

He could not recall ever rendering Sebastian Michaelis speechless, but it seemed he'd finally done it.

He laughed, a full, sincere, bell-like laugh (he blamed the alcohol) and smiled up at Sebastian. "Come on, Michaelis, looks like some fresh air would do you good." He nudged him toward the entrance.

The brittle night air was a devastating change from the warm, golden glow of the tent, and Ciel found himself almost wishing to turn around and go back in. Almost. Then he'd hear the noise, lightly muffled from where they stood, and remember why he ever left.

Ciel blinked a few times, eyes adjusting to the darkness. He shivered, the furnace in his chest not entirely shielding him from the elements. He was – as pitiful as it was to admit, even to himself – much more alert_ now_ than he'd been a week ago, so he did not jump when Sebastian's heavy black coat settled itself onto his shoulders, fitting over him almost like a dress.

"Thank you, Sebastian."

"It's October, you know. Winter is…fast approaching."

Ciel glanced over to see Sebastian, back in this new brooding mood, red eyes dark and despondent. He sighed, through his nose so the man wouldn't hear.

"Are you going to tell me what it is now?"

Sebastian's eyes flickered to life as he glanced down at him, and his lips pulled up at the corners. "Not necessary, I'm telling everyone tomorrow."

Ciel huffed and stopped in his tracks to glare at him. He ignored the way his vision spun for a moment before righting itself, because it just wasn't important. "This is what I was talking about! You do _this_, all the time!"

Sebastian narrowed his eyes steadily at him, mouth a thin line. "_I _have never done this before, Ciel. It is you who does this, _all the time_."

Ciel opened his mouth and tried to force some words out. It didn't quite work.

"You never tell me anything! Do you know how _frustrating _it is, to see your fear _every night_, and be told to just _let it lie_?"

Ciel found his brain again as his temper lit up with Sebastian's tone. "Do you think I give a _fuck _about how frustrated you are?"

"There _is such a thing _as _caring_, Ciel!"

Ciel snarled. "_No one _said you were _required _to care, Sebastian! _I_, on the other hand, am trapped here, utterly alone, with nothing to guide me but you and _your fucking manipulation!_ What the _hell _gives you reason to believe I'd _give in to you_?"

"_BECAUSE I UNDERSTAND!_"

Ciel felt cold, anger and alcohol freezing in his blood. Sebastian rubbed at his face with a pale hand before pinning that sad stare on him. His voice was soft, tragic.

"Each of us here has had our piece of horror. The men in that tent, the ones you look down upon _so much – _they've watched the people they loved _die_ before their eyes. They've been at the receiving end of the worst evil known to England. There is not a group of people _more capable _of understanding you, Ciel."

Ciel opened his mouth, and closed it again. He stared as Sebastian scorched him with his crimson eyes.

"Our world is crumbling. You _must _place your faith _somewhere_."

Ciel did not breathe, and his voice rung out with a robotic resonance. "I don't have to – I've been getting along just fine as I –"

"– You are not an island, Ciel."

Ciel's eyes slammed into his. He opened his mouth, and a whisper came out.

"You don't know anything about what I am." The distant cheers of the men in the tent they'd left behind filled in as the backdrop of all this.

Sebastian took a step forward, and Ciel did not back up. "_Then let me know._"

Ciel squeezed his eyes shut and felt cornered. Caged. The alcohol did not assist in waning the sensation.

He took a step back, and listened as Michaelis took a step forward. _No where to run._ He shook his head and covered his ears to block out all the noise.

But the noise was everywhere because they were everywhere and even when they were gone from his sight they still tranced around inside his skull mumbling what was right and what was wrong and it was almost as bad as having them in front of him, maybe even worse because he couldn't just close his eyes and forget them for a moment if they were on the other side of his eyelids talking with those voices about _why _they did it all, why they killed them and killed _him _too when he would never really understand no matter how many times they explained to him what piety was –

"CIEL!"

And he looked up.

And he saw red eyes.

And he saw pale hands on his arms.

And he saw a dark coat on his shoulders.

And he saw tears.

And then he was being dragged into Sebastian's chest and he realized just _how far gone _he really was, because there was no fixing this, it just couldn't happen. So he reached frozen hands up and used them to cling to the fabric of Sebastian's jacket, clutching him in a white-knuckle grip, and fell apart a little bit.

No sound. No movement. He just let his mind and heart collapse like a burning building. Just for a moment.

Sebastian kept his hands still. Firm and strong. Unmoving. Ciel would never thank him for it, but it was the only thing that kept him from falling.

Eyes closed. Mind screamed. Tore itself in a hundred pieces. Thrashed and cried and screamed and begged for _THE END, THE END, PLEASE PLEASE END THIS_. And he remained silent, composed from the outside.

It was what he was famous for.

He pulled himself together as quickly as he could – tamed and herded in all the loose thoughts, placated the storm with a deep breath, maybe two, maybe twenty, and released one hand from its death-grip on Sebastian's jacket to dry his face. By the time he stepped back and peered up at Sebastian, it was just like before.

He cleared his throat, eyes on the ground. The alcohol made the leaves there float a little, but he'd never felt more glued to reality. "Thanks, I s'pose. For. For that."

His eyes flicked up and he caught the edge of Sebastian's smile. "It's what friends do, Ciel."

Ciel looked away, throat peculiarly heavy. "Yes, Well. Thanks, anyway."

Sebastian started walking again with a chuckle. He sounded lighter than before, less distant and gloomy. "Now. Are you going to tell me what that thing with Grell was about back there?"

Ciel smirked, surprised he didn't even have to force it all that much. He watched the ground pass under his boots. "Just putting a theory to the test. He fancies you."

Sebastian blinked. "Well. Obviously, yes."

Ciel shook his head. "No. He fancies you much more than he lets on, I reckon."

Sebastian chuckled. "And so you taunt him about it? Not very charitable of you, especially considering your initial animosity toward him."

Ciel narrowed his eyes but didn't say anything. "I was not hostile toward him. I believed _him _to be of _me._"

Sebastian laughed. "Well. You may correct about that _now_, after that little display."

Ciel smirked. _Two days. _"I think we should focus on fencing techniques with the men."

Sebastian's eyebrows furrowed. "Why fencing? They're just learning standard swordsmanship."

Ciel shook his head. "They're the same. Just different instruments. We'd accomplish more using that approach."

Sebastian nodded slowly. "Very well. Given recent developments, we _do _call for time on our side."

Ciel looked at him. "What recent developments?"

Sebastian shook his head. "Tomorrow's meeting. You are one lucky boy, Phantomhive. First day on the job and you get a blowout."

_("Leave the future before you and the past behind you, where they both belong. It's the only way to survive in a world like this, Earl.")_

Ciel rolled his eyes. "Alright, I'll wait until tomorrow to find out then. In the meantime, it has been a good hour or so since the festivities began; I reckon we ought to round up the men."

Sebastian smirked, turning back toward the tiny glow of the distant tent, sound still pouring out of it. "It couldn't hurt to check in, I assume."

When they pulled the flap back, anarchy saluted them from the inside. Ciel counted _seven men _on the ground, some with drink still in hand. Half the men in the tent sported shiners or bloody lips that had not been present before their departure. There was an arm wrestling match taking place across Sebastian's desk, and the remaining conscious men were spurring the competitors on, pushing them and shoving them and screaming in their ears, liquor in their hands steadier then their swaying bodies. Ciel and Sebastian remained still in the tent's threshold, eyes unable to stray from the scene and bodies unwilling to stray any closer to it. Ciel tilted his head up to glance at him, mouth slightly open.

"I think they've have enough."

Sebastian barked out a laugh, not quite drowned out by all the noise. "I do believe you are correct. However…one learns best from one's own mistakes when natural consequences befall one's actions. I think it wise to permit them to waste away in here for the night – they'll feel it in the morning."

Ciel smirked. "They might think they'd been ambushed. The wounded lying unconscious beside them, roaring headache and bleeding face, destruction all round them…"

They all screamed and roared as Thomas slammed Johnson's hand to the table. The celebration that followed bore more resemblance to a mosh pit than a party.

Ciel shook his head. "Won't be long."

Sebastian nodded. "However, morning will be coming early to greet _all _of us, so I vote we call it a night."

And just like that, Ciel's eyelids felt heavy and hot, and he nodded earnestly. It had been what could be properly described as _a long day._

They turned, back into the dark toward their beds.

* * *

><p>It was time for Sebastian to break the news.<p>

Ciel stood, silent and still, eyes cold and attentive. His first meeting. The men with whom he'd shared his first fencing lesson but a half hour previously ("_To parry is to _block _an offense. If you do not learn to _parry _properly, you _will be stabbed _in a _duel. _So get it _right_ this time, Sutcliff._") stood before him, excited as they always were in the wake of a satisfying session. Sebastian hadn't said a word for the past hour, but there was nothing Ciel had never seen. He was ready for the _blowout_, in whatever form it took.

"Everyone settle down, it's essential we get straight to it. Settle down."

Sebastian was hunched over the desk beside him (_When had he become a co-leader to his enemies? When had this all happened?_), looking strained somehow as he spoke in a peculiarly soft voice. Ciel's eyes sparked at the tone, instantly becoming sharply alert and listening more carefully as the soldiers quieted down in a short instant, wide eyes pinned on their leader's taught form. They sensed it as well.

Ciel looked at him from the side as he spoke, head tilting up to properly address the men before him.

"There have been new recent…developments…that call for immediate, drastic alteration in our plans."

Ciel felt cold. This was Sebastian Michaelis. And he sounded properly rattled. He steeled himself further.

"Three days ago. The sixteenth of October. Ridley and Latimer were tried for heresy."

He did not know who these two men were, but the others obviously did – every man widened his eyes, opened his mouth to take in more air. Seemed to be a natural reaction, part of the fight or flight instinct, Ciel observed absently. He stood straighter, and he could _feel _the men holding their breath.

"They were burned at the stake in Oxford."

He saw Foxe, Johnson, Stone, West, _so many of them _jerk as if struck by lightning. And his mind was _demanding _now to know what was happening, what these two names meant for everyone, these two tiny little statistics. He hoped somehow that Sebastian would feel the stare he was stabbing through the man's skull, and answer his silent questions.

"Nicholas Ridley and Hugh Latimer were the only two discreet Protestant English Bishops known to us. They were...indispensable allies. Brave men, the both of them."

Ciel's eyes flicked to the men – _the foolish, uneducated peasants – _mind desperate to move _faster_, and watched as a number of them clenched their jaws, pursed their lips, tightened their hands into fists at their sides, these _grown men_, and they all had eyes filled with grief and uncertainty and _tears_, and _what did this all mean, for God's sake?_

But he did not speak, did not move, kept his eyes on Sebastian as the alarm filled his brain like thick pitch and he did his best to keep his head afloat.

Sebastian looked up, and his eyes were twin flames.

"We must take solace in the knowledge that these two noble individuals are residing in Paradise now, spirits watching us from the heavens. We will mourn their loss."

It was as if every man (_perhaps not quite so foolish, quite so uneducated_) in the tent were being sustained with a single heart now. Ciel could taste it in the air above their heads, hear it in his ears. It was not visible, but it was so potently _there _that his breath caught without a sound, and he took a moment to regain it, opening his lips and blinking twice.

"With the Bishops out of the picture…the Queen will corner us into a check, soon enough. But heed my words – _We will not allow their sacrifice to be in vain_."

The men took on a new character before his eyes as he listened to this new heart pound, a steady and eternal _drum, drum, drum _– their eyes hardened as if the same creature resided behind every one of them, their bodies little masks all donned to disguise this hulking mass of gray fur and biting spirit and there was a spark in the air, of steely determination and calculated, righteous blood lust. And Ciel stared.

"We are to concoct a new strategy. We are to hold a funeral. We are to clash with the Queen at long last. We have…a very full few days ahead of us, my comrades."

His red eyes flamed like a furnace, and Ciel felt his (_their_) heart race. Whatever had happened three days ago, whoever these two men were that had been lost…this had changed everything. Made it real.

"We will show Her Royal Majesty _what it means _to be Protestant. We must not fail Our God."

...Made Ciel choose a side, hot and fierce, then and there.

Because those eyes, that voice - _that_ would be the side he chose. Every time. Because this heart, the one he had begun to share with all these other men, the one they'd lent to him when he hadn't been looking…this was the only heart he'd ever fight for.

"Let's plan, men."

And as one, they all gathered around the mahogany table, map spread across it, and together they planned the salvation of the only home they (_he_) had now.

* * *

><p>"Alright stop, <em>everyone <em>stop!"

Weapons (_it was about time _they'd acquired some _actual _swords for themselves, by God) stilled and lowered as a hundred faces turned his way. He could see Sebastian's curious look, but addressed only the soldiers.

"You must understand the fundamentals before we progress any further – otherwise your mastery rests on a shaky foundation, and that will get you nowhere. Everyone drop your weapons."

Brows furrowed, and it was ironic that Foxe, that _the quiet one_, would be the one to question. "Sir, drop our -?"

"_Yes, _everyone put your sticks on the ground."

They all did, looking rather disgruntled.

"Now hold out your dominant hands before you." He demonstrated, extending his right in front of him – though he preferred his left (for visual reasons), either would do just fine for him – and watched as they all immediately did the same. Sebastian was still in the back of the crowd, watching Ciel teach at the front with a curious eye.

"Pair up."

They did, scrambling hastily to meet their usual partners.

"Both of you extend your forearms, and practice parrying each other's lunges."

Grell Sutcliff raised his voice from the back of the crowd, voice feigning gentle humility. "With all due respect, Mr. Ciel sir, what would be the end of this method when we are using no weapon?"

This man was a gray area for Ciel, and would remain such for the foreseeable future. Ciel was a part of this rebellion, he could not deceive himself a moment longer. But then there was Sutcliff, whose presence was like a fence separating Ciel from everyone else, keeping him away.

He spoke with the effective ease of a practiced teacher.

"You are all familiar with your arm's reach – it is the reason you are able to calculate the required force for a punch, the extension necessary to catch yourself from a fall. You are comfortable with the parameters of your arm – so use _this _as a sword to master the moves, not an alien object your body is not yet familiar with."

This was a tremendously extensive explanation compared to that which he typically offered them _("Just do it, that's an order."_), and they were immediately satisfied. They set to work. He watched for an hour as it all began to come together in each of their minds, watched as the advances became something not so foreign, as the parries came naturally, watched as it clicked.

And he watched Sebastian saunter up to the front, finished with assisting some young soldier, watched as he smirked in understanding.

But as he slid to stand next to him, Sebastian asked anyway.

"So why begin the fundamentals of swordplay with no sword?"

Ciel met his red eyes with a look of knowledge and gravity. "In the past they've had trouble comprehending the rudimentary idea that a sword is intended to be an extensionof one's will, like the arm is. Not a tool with memorized movements."

Sebastian smiled. "Hmm. I am inclined to agree."

They both watched as one by one, the soldiers in this new clearing cut through every move with a fluidity none of them had had the chance to experience before. Ciel watched in particular as Grell Sutcliff grew to be more and more superior to his allotted partner in this version of swordplay. Good thing, too – Ciel was hoping the duel tonight might almost be a challenge.

(_Shooting for the stars, Phantomhive, don't get your hopes up._)

Grell lunged at his black-headed opponent, leaning a little too close, and Ciel would've struck at his arm, forcing him to drop his sword. Or he would have gone for the legs, making him buckle to the ground. Or he would have struck at his neck, to finish it all quickly.

But his opponent, being only half-competent, did none of these things, and merely retreated, unaware of the window of opportunity he had just snapped shut. Evidently Grell too remained unaware, for he exhibited nothing save confidence in his abilities.

Ciel shook his head minutely, turning to scan the whole crowd once again. On the whole, things were coming along swimmingly.

* * *

><p>Ciel Phantomhive would not consider himself what anyone might call <em>a planner.<em>

_Sebastian Michaelis_ was a planner. He preferred to have a set schedule, a predictable day-to-day routine. He was always punctual, always on time, and frowned upon tardiness. He reviewed his military strategy everyday, and many times at night when everyone else was taking the time to relax.

He calculated every step forward, every advance and retreat. There was _nothing _Sebastian could not foresee.

And that was the problem with _planning _too much, as Ciel saw it. Because Sebastian did not always foresee _everything. _There was always going to be a variable unaccounted for. _Everything _could change in a split second, and then what was your plan worth?

Ciel knew this. So he was not a planner. He made decisions on the spot, thought on his feet, never took anything for granted, because that was what could get you killed. He didn't brood or battle internally over decision-making, because what was the point? The cards might be stacked up very differently tomorrow.

Ciel was not a planner. So of course, late that night, while he silently shoved his feet into his black boots and shrugged on his blue coat, wide eyes instinctively seeking out light in the pitch black of midnight, he did not think about what might happen _after _this duel. He did not think about what he was going to do to Grell. If he thought too hard, he would realize that he'd probably kill him.

But the implied consequences of such an action were so nebulous, and it was better not to have a _goal _coming into duels of such a dubious, laughable nature. Better not to have a _plan_, because that left one open to failure. Plans made people fragile.

He nudged aside the tent flap, not allowing the material to rustle as he walked out into the night. The chill that greeted him was unforgiving, and he burrowed into his coat with clenched teeth. He could _feel _rather than see his breath expel in a frigid mist.

He grabbed the hilt of the sword he'd dropped next to the tent earlier that evening, icy metal biting into the skin of his palm. He gripped it tightly, reveling in the sensation.

He stared out into the woods unseeing, and began to walk, sword in hand. Out to the clearing, using his other senses to guide him, lucid and steady as he focused on every step he took as he took it, and not the steps before him. Thinking on his feet.

He smirked in the dark, taking a deep, energizing breath. Then he broke through the trees and into the clearing, where everyday he taught people he'd (somewhere along the line) come to know as his family how to stab, cut, shoot and kill.

Into the clearing, where the man with red hair would greet him from the other end of the dark.

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you for readin'! I LOVE ME SUHM REVIEWZ, THEY MAKE MEH SOO HAPPY!<strong>


	11. Desertion

**Uhh...Hey guys! *smiles sheepishly***

**I know it's a shock - but I am not dead, and I haven't abandoned this story. Reasons behind my lack of action on this site are...well. It's a long story. And I'm kinda writing an account of the long story now, on another site. Been busy with...every type of human drama you could possibly imagine, it's insane.**

**So anyway, I'm back, so you _finally _get to see what happens with the duel and all that. This chapter took a solid two and a half weeks to write for some reason, but it's out now so go nuts! XD**

**Love you guys, thanks for sticking with me through all this, and I hope you like this one.**

* * *

><p>Counting Dropping Heads<p>

Eleven: Desertion

* * *

><p>"The ministers of Sainte Guillotine are robed and ready. Crash! – A head is held up, and the knitting-women who scarcely lifted their eyes to look at it a moment ago when it could think and speak, count One."<p>

Charles Dickens

* * *

><p>"Ciel Phantomhive!"<p>

He stepped past the dark trees, and Grell was standing there with a torch in one hand and a sword at his hip. The fire cast a warm, shaky glow that etched his scowl in deep relief, making his red hair look like blood trailing down the side of his face. _Perhaps your torch can tell you what is to come, Sutcliff. _He smirked.

"My apologies, I do hope you've not been waiting long?"

The man sneered at him. "When engaging with the enemy I prefer not to dally around, but rather to get straight to it. I challenged you to a duel. Do you still accept?"

He shot him a look. _You dipshit, why else would I be standing here? _

Grell took a breath, and did not break eye-contact. "As I expected. Well then. In the name of my Holy Father, I resolve to remove this Catholic murderer, who is hated by God, from the realm of the living. Ciel Phantomhive, your sins against the Protestant race have been sacrilege and are cursed under anathema. You deserve death, and death is what you shall receive at the hands of the Almighty's holy servant!"

He narrowed his eyes, but said nothing about Sutcliff's phrasing. He kept his tone bored, even as the gears in his head began to turn. "I would not be so sure, Sutcliff. Would you rather name the official regulations of this duel, or might you grant the honor to me?"

He snarled, eyes glittering strangely in the torchlight. "You have no honor, devil! And as such, it falls upon myself to name the terms of your execution!"

Ciel choked back a laugh. This was becoming the oddest combination of eerie and ridiculous. "Very well, Sutcliff. Name your rules."

Grell broke into motion, carrying his torch with him as he paced right and left before Ciel. "First! We face one another and bow! Second! We take ten steps –"

"-_I know how to duel, Sutcliff. _My _rules _refer to any specifics, duty to yield to supplication and such."

He stopped his pacing and faced him instantly. His tone was low and sinister. "No supplication. We fight to the death."

Ciel blinked, and shrugged with a smirk. "If you're sure, then I suppose that's what we must do. Any last requests?"

The man's lips thinned and stretched into some unsettling smile. "Only that you remember this moment, while you burn in Satan's realm. That you remember the man who put you there in the flames. That you remember me, Grell Sutcliff, as the one who ripped your black soul from your body!"

Cel kept his face blank. "You are unhinged, Sutcliff. But _you_ do well to remember–" He took a step, another, and another, until he was in Sutcliff's face and could see the brown flecks in his green eyes, "–that when you feel the bite of my blade in your chest, you will die. You will remember nothing, experience nothing, _be _nothing because I swallowed your life up like the demon you think I am, and beyond life there is nothing. So when I kill you, don't bother to believe _you'll_ remember who ripped your life from you – I'll do that for the both of us."

His poison eyes flashed and he snarled. "You lack all faith in the Almighty Lord then? You are a _true_ heretic?"

Ciel narrowed his eyes and did not pause. "And you are Catholic."

Sutcliff's eyes widened and he stumbled backward. "How _DARE_ you accuse me of such –"

"–Don't deny what's true, Sutcliff. Your silly condemnation against me – those words are Catholic tradition. The Pope himself decrees everything using that very same phrasing."

Sutcliff's eyes glowed, sharp beams that shook in the dark with his erratic motions. "This is an outrage! First you murder my kin, then you accuse me of fraternizing with those –"

Ciel smirked and did his best not to laugh at this ridiculous parody of a human being. "– I accused you of _fraternizing_ with no one, Sutcliff. I would bite your tongue before you manage to tell me the _entire _story of how you betrayed our resistance. You are the traitor we've been looking for, the spy who's been giving our plans away to the enemy. You _had the gall _to trade sell your own kin to the devil for _a new fling?_"

The man's mouth snapped shut, eyes like knives and voice low. "Let us duel."

Cel nodded, and his voice was lower. "I would say it's the proper time to do so as well. Any last requests, Sutcliff?"

He sneered, stepping toward him. "I will enjoy killing you."

Ciel met his eyes, and kept his voice pleasant. "Splendid. Grell Sutcliff, prepare to duel."

Sutcliff said not a word. He lowered the torch to the cold ground. They stepped slowly toward one another, half-shadowed, bowing without breaking eye contact. Neither of them bowed low.

They both turned their backs at the same time, and counted the steps aloud.

"One!"

…What was he going to do? He couldn't kill this man, then he would have no evidence that Grell was the traitor save a dead man's confession. What would Sebastian think?

"Two!"

_Don't think about what will happen only think about now never plan don't trap yourself – _

"Three!"

He remembered one time, when he wondered what he was going to do. Wondered what was going to happen to him. And that had not worked out well.

"Four!"

No, it had not worked out well at all. _Protestant scum burn in hell fire cleanse body and soul obey your sovereign queen messenger of god relish in this pain in this cleansing you like it don't you?_

"Five!"

_You like it just like this don't you because you're a sinner you must sacrifice yourself must be debased by god's disciple to understand the bliss of holy paradise –_

"Six!"

And there had been whips, and there had been cages and there had been so many red robes, so many masked faces and there had been so much fire, so alive with terror and hatred and passion and the fire had burned out his insides –

"Seven!"

_But I am betroth'd unto your enemie: Divorce mee, untie, or break that knot again: Take mee to you, imprison mee, for I except you enthrall mee, never shall be free, nor never chaste, except you ravish me* –_

"Eight!"

-Burned him till there was nothing but brittle black bone and charred muscle and a white eye, and there was no feeling, no soul and not a care in the world. The fire had taken _everything, theytookeverythingoutofme._

And here was one of them, right behind him. A Catholic _(you are a demon)._ One of those responsible for everything that had happened.

"Nine!"

And he snapped.

"AGH!" He whipped around, just as Sutcliff belted out a "Ten!" and turned. He stomped toward the man with the red hair, with the fire in his eyes and he could _feel _the ice in his, colder than the mist escaping his mouth as he raised his sword –

(_Relish in this, feel the Holy Spirit inside you –)_

And clashed with another. Sutcliff's eyes held a brightness that defied the clearing's dim torch-lit shadows and Ciel slashed toward his legs with blinding speed, met with a clumsy parry.

(_The pleasure is drowning you, isn't it? You feel the Holy Spirit within you, washing over you? You feel –) _

Jab, thrust, parry, block. Sutcliff backed up and backed up, but Ciel couldn't hold back anymore, couldn't pretend any longer –

(_You like this don't you you were meant to be right here under me being conquered by God's Holy servant it is in man's nature to Submit you must Submit to me in order to feel God's clemency –)_

Sutcliff attempted a jab at his stomach, and Ciel parried it with a violence that knocked Sutcliff's arm back a few feet. Ciel raised his leg up and smashed it into the man's abdomen. He heard the breath escape his lungs in a whoosh as he fell back, and Sutcliff's sword was still in his hand, but on the ground. Ciel stepped on that hand, leaning all his weight on it, and listened as Sutcliff cried out.

He grabbed a fist of the man's red hair and tilted his face upward for a better angle, and then he was punching and punching and kicking as he grunted in pain and Ciel lost track of what he was doing (_you like this don't you)_, but he was on fire or maybe colder than he'd ever been before, and this man _had toend –_

So he raised his sword and screamed as he swung it down on Sutcliff's neck.

(_Oh my word, you've heard about William's new affair, haven't you?)_

And the pained noises stopped.

(_That does seem to be his type. Any pretty thing with a hole to offer.)_

And he swung again, and again it planted itself in his neck, like a shovel digging into dry ground. He ripped it from him.

And he saw blood.

(_You like this)_

And he heard gurgling.

(_Don't you)_

And Sutcliff fell to one side.

And he watched. Watched while Sutcliff writhed and twitched on the ground, aarms and legs flailing desperately, red hair tangled and splattered all around his face, casting shadows that were wider than the puddle of black soaking the ground beneath him, watched as he brought pale, slender hands up to his neck to stop the bleeding but Ciel knew he couldn't breathe either by the rattling sounds he was making and by the way it'd felt that second time. He wouldn't last long without air.

And he watched. Standing there in the cold, but he felt hot as the seconds ticked by, as his breath steadied again and his heart did not slow from its painful _bumpbumpbump_ as Sutcliff's movements got slower in the torchlight. As the man looked up at him with cooling eyes.

Ciel kept his voice even, and he felt the chill in his eyes. "I'll remember everything for the both of us."

And those surprised, spitting green eyes looked away, into the trees toward the direction of camp, and then stilled.

And Ciel watched. Listened as the fire on the torch crackled. Smelled the cold pine in the air. He couldn't look away from the eyes…but he never could, every time.

He remembered once, when she had ordered him to deal with a noble who, word had it, was sending out illicit pamphlets regarding the pitfalls of Catholicism, he'd killed the whole family. There had been a wife who was blonde, and a daughter who was only a few years younger than himself and had blue eyes lighter than his. And he'd sat very still in their drawing room, watching them _not be _for hours before he'd finally left to contact authorities to clean up the mess.

Then he'd left that life behind – he was, as loath as he had been to admit it, Protestant. Not in faith, but in heritage. His family's name came with an identity, and as much as the Queen had tried to dull it into nothing it was still there, plain as day for all to see.

But no one ever believed anything unless they wanted to, so his true identity had remained veiled in plain sight.

But he was _home_ here. He didn't have to lie, he didn't have to suffer, and he didn't have to kill here. Sebastian had come out of nowhere to deliver him from all that, and he was starting to see now that perhaps life was worth living. Maybe those hollow notions of _happiness_, and _love_ actually existed. Perhaps things weren't quite so dismal.

And now there was this.

An hour passed. Almost two. Then he tore his eyes away, looked down at his sword, black with blood, and tossed it onto the body. He walked around it to bend down and pick up the torch, putting it out before dropping it back to the ground. Then he turned and walked out of the clearing, back into the looming trees where everything was darker and colder.

(_You like this don't you?)_

What was he going to do?

He was back in the tent, under the blankets before the shivering started.

* * *

><p>"<em>Ciel."<em>

"_Bugger off, Sebastian, it's nothing."_

"_That is obviously not true, little one. What has you so upset?"_

"_It's none of your sodding business," he snapped._

_A pause. And then, "…Ciel, why do you always try to distance yourself from me?"_

_Ciel looked down and protested, feeling his irritation slide away. "I don't distance myself, Sebastian. I am on your side, you know that."_

_He took a step closer, and bent down to whisper in his ear. "How can I know for sure?"_

_Ciel's breath caught, and he moved closer as he smelled Sebastian all around him. And then the man was kissing him, hard and hungry and beautiful, and his eyes fluttered closed. He opened his mouth under coaxing lips, and his world crystallized._

_Heat raced through him as he felt hands on his shoulders, on his back, on his waist, trailing down…_

"_Oh…Sebastian…" The heat was rising in him, filling him up and pouring out through his mouth and into this beautiful man._

_Sebastian hummed into Ciel's mouth, pushing him back against the wall and grabbing his hips. He lifted Ciel effortlessly and pinned him against the wall, pressing his body flush against him._

"_Ciel…" He whispered it in his ear, and Ciel shivered against him, clinging tight._

"_Ciel…I have something to show you…"_

_Ciel looked up, breathless and hungry for more of this beautiful feeling. "What is it?"_

_Sebastian looked down into his face, and his beautiful warm red eyes went hard. He took a step back, and Ciel slid down to the ground, which was covered in leaves – how had he not noticed that before? The wall against his back felt rougher than it had a second ago, and he looked back and realized it was a tree trunk, climbing up the black sky like all the ones next to it._

_He looked back up at the man above him, but it was Sutcliff now, throat torn open and that crazed fire in his eyes. He smiled down at him, teeth bloody and too sharp in his mouth, and raised the strangest, most brutal-looking machine Ciel had ever seen._

"_Remember, little one… who it was who ripped your soul from your body!"_

H_e turned the machine on and it growled angrily. Ciel scrambled to stand up, Grell swung it down –_

"Ciel."

He opened his eyes, and red greeted him. It was still quite dark, and he swallowed down the urge to throw up.

"Sebastian…my apologies if I awoke you, I just had a…bit of a nightmare, is all."

His voice was gentle. "It is quite alright little one, would you like to tell me what upset you so much?"

Ciel shook his head in the dark, feeling sweat cool on his face and spoke softly. "No."

He watched the man's silhouette as he shifted, and there was a long pause where Sebastian seemed about to say something. And finally he spoke in a quiet, matter-of-fact tone.

"You know…my parents were not Protestant."

Ciel snorted. "There's no way you chose this lot on your own."

"Hah. Can't quite name many people who would, I'll give you that. My parents were middle class, but very proud. Outspoken. They had a passion for great works, and they saw the thread of freedom that ran beneath all of them. I grew up believing you had to fight against adversity before you could really discover who you are."

Ciel stared out across the warm-lit tent, and Sebastian continued softly.

"They never liked the methods the Catholic Church employed…they found the whole lot of them to be power-thirsty old sots who were no more righteous than you or I. The villagers knew and loved my parents' opinions, and we became a sort of unified clan, my mother and father in the lead."

He had a bad feeling about this (_and why is he telling me all this anyway_). "That seems foolish."

Sebastian chuckled. "If we were to do this _now – _indeed, it would be hilariously foolish. But the Tudor Dynasty was still young when my mother and father formed their views growing up – Henry was born a peasant and died a king, his son had the nerve to tell Rome that his country could decide for herself what was holy – England was in an era of change, of forward thinking. The man who made his voice heard was only considered more English than his neighbor. It was a beautiful time.

"When the killings of the King's wives began, we all suspected he'd gone mad. He had always been radical – who else would break from the Roman Catholic Church so boldly? – but this was different. The Henry of before was gentle and kind, England's friend rather than her slave-master, but the Henry of later years was a different ruler entirely."

Ciel stared into the dark, letting the man's voice show him everything.

"Needless to say, my mother and father were both executed on the charge of treason, soon after I turned thirteen. The village I lived in raised me after they were gone, and encouraged me to be an independent thinker like them, but to be more…tactful about it." He chuckled.

Ciel looked at him. "How did you become Protestant then? If your parents didn't choose your religion for you."

Sebastian smiled. "I read Luther's 95 Theses when I was fifteen. And it all just fell into place for me. I knew what I had to do."

Ciel looked past him. "How…it's not that simple, though. How can just – just _reading a book _convince you of everything that has significance in a person's life? It doesn't…work like that."

Sebastian smirked, but there was a touch of sadness in it. "There is no steadfast rule on how to get to the truth, little one. No one finds it in the same way – some read a book, and they _feel _it. Others just live, and see it in the air. But if you're lucky, you'll find it. Soon."

Ciel sighed, and felt a thousand years old. "I think that's nonsense."

Sebastian smiled, and his voice was velvet-soft. "It is whatever you need it to be. Everything leads to the truth, for those who look around."

Ciel looked at him. Met ruby eyes, thick and warm with fire and something very soft. He looked away. "I…After she ordered my manor to be burned, she took me. I went through…they called it Conversion."

Sebastian looked at him, and Ciel didn't meet his eyes, keeping his gaze on the blankets crowded over him. "I was there for three months, and they took me through loads of different trials, different – sufferings, that they felt a heretic had to experience in order to be cleansed of their sin and then molded into a pious Catholic."

Ciel took a deep breath, and pushed back the screaming in his ears, the voices that always curled around the back of his mind where he tried to cram them all. "During these trials, I was stabbed, branded, beaten, starved, raped…I can't really name a torture the priests refrained from putting me through. It didn't feel like three months…but they tell me I broke around two and a half."

Sebastian was silent. So quiet it was almost as if he wasn't there, but Ciel could _feel _him listening_._ He didn't really want to talk anymore – why had he even started this?

"I still remember their faces, the faces of the priests who were assigned to my conversion. They wore masks in the beginning, I s'pose to shield their identities, I don't know...But eventually they gave up and threw the masks aside, and I saw their faces...I remember their voices, and the way they smelled, and I remember everything they did. The memories, they're...rather overwhelming. Occasionally I get – disoriented, lose track of the when and where. I often forget things, obvious, important things. It's irritating, but. Not unbearable. So I consider myself fortunate."

He took a deep breath, and continued. "But I do not believe in a God. No God would allow those sorts of things to happen, to let a soul get so marred by such physical horrors. When we die, we will be over, and that's the end of it."

His eyes flicked up to Sebastian's for the first time in what might have been years, and there was this sea of red and warm and waves of something beautiful that he didn't really have a word for. The man leaned down, lifting his hand to touch his cheek, and whispered in his ear.

"Never lose this strength, my Ciel."

He looked up into his eyes again, and before he could blink there were warm, strong arms wrapping themselves around him, and he closed his eyes and let himself sink into them for a moment or two. The truth didn't matter; but this – _this _was home.

And speaking of home, there was something he'd forgotten, something he needed to tell Sebastian...What was it...

He didn't know how much later it was when it happened – a voice sounded from outside the tent.

"Mr. Sebastian, sah!"

They both jumped apart, and Sebastian's eyes dived into his. Ciel smirked, and leaned back into his blankets as Sebastian stood and walked to the tent entrance, pushing back the flap. It was dark gray out there still, almost black.

"What is it? Isn't it quite early to be –"

"There is a matter of utmost urgency that requires your private attention."

What the hell? He watched Sebastian glance back into the tent at him, and he gave him a silent wave of the hand. _Go, go._

And then he left.

And then, maybe an hour later, with Ciel in that exhausted limbo between sleep and awareness where vivid dreams jar you back and forth into consciousness, he came back. The second he pushed past the flap and stepped in, Ciel was on high, if not slightly disoriented, alert.

"What the hell happened?"

Sebastian didn't say anything, just looked down at him.

"Sebastian – What is –"

"Do not speak."

Sebastian's tone was harsh, and he went cold.

"Sebast–"

"Come with me."

Mind numb, Ciel left the warmth of his blankets without another word, heart pounding and mouth dry. Sebastian was fully dressed, and Ciel shoved on his shoes and shrugged on the coat he'd left at the foot of his harem's bed before following him out of the tent.

_(Sebastian what could possibly be wrong what the hell is wrong with you with me with them what is happening)_

Sebastian walked past all the tents and into the woods in front of him. Ciel shivered and did his best to keep his breathing under control as it rushed out in an icy mist. His heart pounded oddly as he listened to every step they both took, snapping twigs and crushing dead leaves, the sounds echoing as if the cold was a set of walls closing them in.

"_THERE HE IS!"_

And then they were in the clearing, and the roar of a hundred angry voices pierced his ears. They were _all there_, every one of the Protestants in their dressing gowns and their battle boots, and Grell's body was gone and they were all screaming and yelling and cursing at him.

_How had he forgotten to tell him about that?_

"_TRAITOR!"_

They all shrieked it. His heart slammed against his chest and Ciel couldn't quite manage to keep his breath even anymore, and mist escaped his lips in fast clouds. His voice was lost in the storm of angry people, and he was shaking his head. "It wasn't me…"

He had completely forgotten it had happened. _How had he forgotten?_

He turned to look at Sebastian, and met cold red eyes. He spoke a little louder.

"Sebastian…You don't understand, it wasn't –"

"YOU MURDERED GRELL!" May-Rin screeched it from the crowd, pointing at him viciously.

He didn't know what to do. He squeezed his eyes shut, and opened them again. They _had_ to understand. He injected as much authority as he could into his voice while he was still so jarred. Five minutes before, he'd been asleep in his warm bed, dreaming of blood-soaked forest floors and red robes.

"I did _not _murder him, we _dueled_ and –"

"_YOU DON'T _DUEL _YOUR COMRADES!" _Bardroy's voice was like thunder, and the rest roared their agreement. The desperation ate at his ribs.

"HE WAS NOT –"

"Ciel Phantomhive!" He whipped back to face Sebastian, who stood tall and still, expression a tearing combination of authority and disappointment. The crowd hushed, like the eye of some massive storm.

"Ciel Phantomhive, you have murdered your Protestant comrade Grell Sutcliff. As you well know an undiscovered traitor has been living in our midst for some time, and now he has been revealed to us. We took you in with mercy and forgiveness in our hearts, we placed you in a position of high rank among us, and in thanks you have cut down one of our own.

"There is no denying your crime – your sword was found, stained with his blood, resting atop his body this morning by West and Foxe as they were guarding the perimeters of our camp. You murdered Grell Sutcliff in cold blood, and in doing so revealed yourself to be that same traitor who has been relaying our information to the enemy.

"For the treason committed against our cause, you deserve no less than death. However I have decreed that, because of your services to this resistance your sentence ought not to be to such a degree of severity, but this has been decided instead: We will let you walk away, free of injury. But you _must_ remove yourself from our Protestant camp at once."

Ciel stared, and all panic left him as the crowd roared their approval in the dim light of morning. He looked into Sebastian's face, and found he couldn't see into his eyes anymore. They were cold and closed off like a shut set of stone doors. And Ciel let out a breath.

"Well then. All you bastards are just resolved to not listen to me then, eh?"

It was as if there had never been any other expression on Sebastian's face. As if it all had never even existed. "We will hear no excuses from the traitor. There is no justification for the murder of one's comrades."

"_Is that so, Sebastian_? How _exactly _does that add up in your mind? Am I not _The Queen's Guard Dog_? _HAVE I NOT_ killed _HUNDREDS_ of you?" He was snarling now, and both his eyes flashed through the quieting crowd.

"If none of you wish to hear my reasons for killing that man then I have no wish to explain them! Every one of you are hypocrites for this, for taking what you see and hear at face-value and refusing to see an alternative! You are _no _better than the _Catholics_ you plot against, _and I will GLADLY return to their side_!"

The crowd was silent now. But he could see in their faces that nothing had changed. It was over.

And he had to leave now. He turned to Sebastian, saw his face, betrayed and sad and silent, and almost broke.

"Right then." He turned to the crowd, and saw May-Rin, sharp eyes bright with tears, Bard and Finnie on either side of her. He saw Foxe, he saw Barrymore, he saw Aberline, he saw BrickInTheWall West. All watching him in the same way he'd watched the forgotten dead man just hours before. His voice was formal and bitter. "It was a pleasure instructing you all. I wish you well on your Crusade."

He turned. "Michaelis." Without looking at him, he inclined his head in the man's direction, and walked out of the clearing without another word. He could _feel _the stares digging into him from behind, and wondered idly if an archer would emerge from the crowd and shoot him in the back.

Then he realized Sutcliff had already done just that.

(_I'll remember it for the both of us…_)

He walked through the woods. He walked past the tents. He walked and walked and walked, using the rising sun to lead him, and came to a road in the country by noontime. At least now he had an actual path to follow.

He listened to the crunch of grey gravel under his boots. "_Fucking Michaelis_…"

How was it over so fast? How had _this_ happened so quickly? One moment he was home, and the next…no. That _camp _was not home. He had come there on the Queen's orders to gain information on the Protestant resistance. And hadn't he done just that?

Things were just as they should be: he'd done his job well, and the Protestants hated him for killing their brothers.

He felt bile rush up his throat and he leaned over in time to throw up on the gravel. His stomach heaved once, twice, a thousand times, and then he spit the sour taste from his mouth coughing, straightened up, and slowly started walking again.

(_You like it don't you? Cleanse and purge and ravish –)_

The sky was gray today. The ground was gray today. Ciel kept walking.

He wouldn't think about Michaelis. That man with red eyes and a warm, gentle smirk and those strong arms wasn't real. The stone doors he'd seen in the clearing – everything but that was fake.

Michaelis was a good leader and a skilled fighter; he'd be a fierce opponent in the future, that was for sure. He hadn't seen the last of that man.

At least he had a good challenge up ahead.

_(Remember who it was. Never lose this strength. My Ciel. You like it don't you?)_

_Push back push back push back –_

* * *

><p>He didn't know what he should feel. What they wanted him to feel.<p>

It was a question he pondered much, when he pondered. They beat him and tortured him and violated him for doing the wrong things. For being bad. For being unholy.

Clothes tattered, face covered in dirt and blood - a distant part of him knew he was a mess. He remembered once, when he wasn't this way. But that was one time, and this was another.

He heard footsteps approaching his cage, and his eyes flicked up in the dark, heart pounding and breath instantly coming in gasps. He squinted through the bars, his bloody eye screaming with dull, ever-there pain, and tried peering through the metal and the dirt and the grime and the dark to see which one it was this time.

He wriggled restlessly in his cage as the silouhettes drew closer, the _clompclompclomp _of their boots against the filthy stone floor grew louder, tapping at his ears and making him flinch every time.

At last they were standing right at his cage, and his panicked fidgetting fell into complete stillness and he held his breath, staring up into thier barely-lit faces.

It was the priests in charge of Pain and Submission. They'd never held a trial together before, and despite himself he felt his breath heave in quick gasps. _NononopleasenoIllbegoodIswea r -_

Pain reached forward and unlocked the cage, the door opening with the ominous screech of metal on metal. Submission wordlessly motioned for him to step out on his own.

Which was new - they always dragged him out after opening the door. What did this mean? Did they want him to walk out, or was this a teSt? Were they testing how obedient to their rules he was (_DO NOT LEAVE THIS CAGE UNLESS WE TAKE YOU OUT_)? Should he stay in the cage, or leave it?

He started to tremble, muscles straining and flexing uncontrollably. He felt the weight of this choice in every fiber of his being and he didn't know what they wanted, he didn't know what the right thing to do was.

Submission motioned again to exit the cage. He flinched violently, falling back against the cold metal bars beneath him with a clang and the tiniest whimper.

Finally Pain spoke, and terror surged through him like lightning. "_Exit the cage, Heathen!_"

Nearly in tears, he held his breath, and decided. He stood and stepped out of the cage, body tensed and head ducked low for the coming blow -

And it never came. Pain grabbed his left arm and Submission grabbed his right, and they began walking through the grimey dungeon.

His eyes darted everywhere, and he felt the peak coming. He could feel it in his gasping breath, in his pounding heart and in the countless scenarios of punishment that flashed past his eyes. After the peak there would be nothing, no feeling and no thinking. He waited for the peak.

They led his barely-resisting body up a flight of slippery metal steps, and at the end there was a black door. Submission stepped forward to open it, and Ciel twisted in their grip and couldn't hold back a scream at the blinding white light on the other side.

He was stunned when they both ignored him and led him silently forward, and _where were they taking him where was he going why weren't they punishing him for being sacreligious -_

It was too much (_Fearpainterroragonywhatwillh appenwhatwillhappen -_). His face went slack, his eyes squinted forward without seeing, and he stopped thinking and stopped fearing.

They led him through plush-carpeted hallways that gradually grew brighter and brighter, slamming waves into his eyes and searing his vision. The priests on either side of him maintained the same solid pace and turned as one from one hall to the next, up a decadent staircase and back down another, twisting and winding through an elaborate labyrinth that seemed to go on forever. Ciel did not bother to keep track - did it matter where he was? The only place he knew was the dungeon and if he were to die here it would be of no loss to him.

So he walked blindly, head fogged and pounding as they led him...wherever they were leading him.

After what could have been ten seconds or ten days, they both stopped him abruptly and one of them - was it Submission? - spoke. He heard the word _Queen. _It was one of the only words he cared about; every punishment came with that word, no matter the priest. _Long Live The Queen._

Awareness jarred him when he heard a name - one of those distant figments he dreamed about occasionally, one of those foggy memories they'd done their best to beat out of him.

"Ciel Phamtomhive!"

He looked up and his working eye focused on a woman sitting on a decadent high-backed chair before him. The room was small and intimate, with ornate tables and paintings and lavish little decorations everywhere. He felt like he was dreaming.

After sweeping around the room his eye fell again upon the woman who'd said his name. She was brunette, and the lavender gown she wore hugged her beautiful figure. She had a sweet face, but there was a sharpness in her dark eyes that chilled him to the bone. She looked like royalty, and he felt like he was dreaming.

She smiled brightly at him, sharpness not leaving her eyes and body not moving in her chair. "Ah, how wonderful to see you again dear!"

He oggled dazedly at her. Where was he?

She seemed to read his expression. "You're likely wondering why you're here, yes? Nod if you understand."

That was something he could do. He liked clear instruction. So he nodded.

She smiled brighter. The falsity of it terrified and dazed him. "Well I'm glad you're curious, dear. You see, all the little things you've been going through the past three months have been tests, all designed to see if you'd be fit to take on a very special position at my side."

He didn't understand, and said nothing. Submission on his right muttered "_Respond, heathen!" _He flinched and had not a clue what to do.

The woman frowned as if in disapproval and before he could panic more, she said, "Now William, you very well know that Ciel is no longer our prisoner, but our guest. He has been cleansed by your work. He is no longer a heathen, and it is against God to treat him as such."

He watched as Submission bowed his head low before the woman, his eyes sparking. "Yes Your Majesty, of course."

She turned back to look at Ciel with a cold smile. "So Mr. Phantomhive. I understand this must all be quite overwhelming at this moment, so I shall be brief. You are to be my Guard Dog. You will carry out my royal wishes and maintain Catholicism in England. This job is of utmost importance, and you will be trained to have more skill than the most experienced killer. You will be very powerful, my dear."

He blinked painfully and stared at her. This was not real. _Real _was the dungeon and the cage. This could not be real, and he did not understand it.

Her smile grew softer. "I see you will have much trouble adjusting. We will talk more tomorrow, after you have gotten a good night's rest and a meal in your stomach. William, please escort Ciel to a spare room and keep a tight lock on it, poor dear will take some time."

Submission nodded at his side and terror hugged him tight when the priest gripped his arm and dragged him out of the warm, surreal little room that he forgot as soon as he passed the threshold. He walked through hallways and doorways and eventually found himself fighting sleep on the softest surface he'd ever layed under in his life, and Submission left the room without doing _anything _to him and _where was he and what was going on_ -

He remembered once, when he wasn't this way.

But that was one time, and this was another.

* * *

><p>The hours passed. He threw up more. And he walked.<p>

His dazed eyes fixed hazily on the line where the gray earth met the gray sky. Distant gravel crunched steadily, and the sound was so soft at first he tuned it out. But after a few minutes the sound grew loud enough to demand attention, and his eyes snapped into focus in when he realized what he was hearing.

A rickety wooden wagon crunched slowly along the road towards him. The driver was hunched over, gray-haired, and looked older than the wagon, dull eyes focused on the road ahead and reigns slack in his grip. Ciel instantly stood straighter and walked faster – it was about time someone passed him on this road.

He hurried to cover the last ten meters of space between his body and the approaching piece-of-shit vehicle, and shouted out to the driver who still didn't appear to see him.

"Oi! You there, stop!"

The gray old man looked at him for the first time, and knarled hands jerked back the reigns on the ox. The wagon lurched to a stop.

The man's voice was as crumbly as stale bread. "Hello little lad, what are you doing out here all on your own?"

Ciel took a second to observe – the man had a shitty gray suit on that matched the road under him but he could recognize the faded insignia on the man's chest pocket anywhere and his heart leapt.

"You work for the Trancy household?"

The man's dull brown eyes seemed to focus a little more and he looked into Ciel's face. "Why yes I do, lad."

Ciel stepped forward. "The head of the house is a good friend of mine, I must be taken to him immediately."

"Oh – I'm terribly sorry but I have an assignment to carry out -"

Ciel waved him off with a shake of the head. "I will make sure Trancy understands your situation. Whatever your assignment is, he will be much more happy if you take me to see him. I will convince him to reward you."

The man's eyes widened a little. "Oh, well if this is the case Sir, I'd be honored to take you to my master."

_Of course _he would be honored. Ciel felt a distantly familiar wave of disdain. So many of these lower servants would do anything for an extra penny. He climbed straight-backed into the spare seat beside the driver.

"Splendid. How far are we from London?"

The old man pulled and tugged the reigns this way and that, slowly maneuvering the ox until they were facing the direction Ciel had been walking toward for so long. "Ah...If I had to reckon at it, I'd guess it's perhaps a five hour journey."

Fantastic. He sighed noiselessly, the muscle memory of bored aristocracy leaning him back arrogantly on the bench, and he spoke not a word.

The scenery changed as time ticked slowly by, only measured by the crunch of gravel beneath the beast's hooves. They cut through forests and groves, green splashed into the gray he'd come to abhor, and Ciel did his best not to think.

He was on his way home now. Soon he'd be with Alois, and Alois would straighten him up and tie him to the real world again, and then he'd be heading to his manor at long last.

He wondered what kind of reunion he'd receive. How would everyone react once they saw him again? Ciel hadn't the foggiest clue whether the Queen had suspected his treachery and had sent out false rumors of his death, or if she waited for his return with bated breath. The reception of all the others rested on that one woman. She would decide if his loved ones would celebrate or shun his return.

Eventually thatched buildings, small stone houses crawled past them, and he knew he was approaching the outskirts of the city. He didn't know what to think of this, what to expect (_God what if they killed him what if they welcomed him home what the fuck even _was_ home he didn't know anymore red eyes gentle smile, no, only stonedoorsstonedoorsstonedoo rs_), and he felt his heart rate begin to climb before he realized what he was doing to himself and he stopped thinking about everything.

And before he could corner himself into another trap he found his little wagon to be driving amidst the bustle of townsmen in his gray little city, buildings climbing into the sky (_not like the trees did but close enough_) and carriages loping past. Ciel felt suddenly self-conscious in his tattered clothes and dirty appearance. He knew he looked no better than a shabby little peasant boy, and sat straighter as if this might make up for it.

They worked their way through the crowd before reaching the iron gates of a mansion he knew as if from a forgotten dream, with its sunny colors and impressive columns and statues and gargoyles.

He didn't know what to expect. His heart pounded in his chest. He knew nothing. But seeing their approach the gatekeeper opened the path for their little wagon anyway, and they began to make their way to the front door of the grandiose Trancy house.

* * *

><p><strong>* John Donne, Holy Sonnet 14 "Batter my heart, three-person'd God, for you." Published a little before Ciel's lifetime.<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>OOOHH THE HORROR! HOW CAN SO MANY THINGS GO WRONG IN BUT ONE CHAPTER?!<strong>

**Please review, I love new voices and I love it when people tell me what they didn't like. Thank you for reading everybody! :)**


	12. Adjusting

**Hey everybody, remember this story? Heh.**

**I really am terribly sorry about how long it's been, it's unforgivable. Been dealing with a lot of very hard stuff, been fighting depression and it's (sort of) getting a little better with the help of the people around me. At least I'm not a lethartgic mess anymore haha.**

**But enough about all that, I really do feel terrible about how long it's been, just haven't really had the will to do much...buut I returned to this about a month ago and have been working almost every day on this, for a solid month. It's ridiculous, but it's 30 pages (longest chapter I have ever written) to make up for the months-long hiatus and hopefully make it a little easier for you all to forgive me ^.^**

**It might be a little mechanical or not-quite-up-to-par at some points, I promise the creakiness is half-intentional, half-fixing-to-go-away-with-practice. Hope you enjoy!**

**I don't own Kuroshitsugi.**

* * *

><p>Counding Dropping Heads<p>

Twelve: Adjusting

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><p>"Repression is the only lasting philosophy. The dark deference of fear and slavery, my friend," observed the Marquis, "will keep the dogs obedient to the whip, as long as this roof," looking up to it, "shuts out the sky."<p>

Charles Dickens

* * *

><p>The tall wood doors openned with a low whine, and on the other side the decadent front room Ciel had dreamed of for months sat there, waiting patiently for his return. Dark velvet-red walls and ornate decor that felt only half-real in his current state of disheveled filth.<p>

His eyes drank it in. He was home.

"Lord Trancy will be with you in a moment," some servant civily offered before bustling off to the belly of the house, presumably to find his master.

So there Ciel stood. The wagon-driver had scuttled off the moment Ciel had promised again to mention his name for reward, and he stood alone just within the threshold of the house. Trousers torn, boots covered in mud and holes, jacket no longer royal blue but a filthy brown-gray color – exhaustion ached at his bones and dirt bit at his skin and it all did well to distact him from any semblance of thinking.

His head was bent, fingers fussing with a rip torn into the cuff of his once-blue coat when he heard shoes clipping against the shiny tile floor. His eyes widened, head snapping up and Alois was there, walking into the huge room with that effeminate arrogance he knew so well. A long purple velvet coat rested over his shoulders, and beneath that he wore a tight-fitting black shirt and red trousers. The chandeliers overhead cast a shine on his light blonde hair, artfully messy in just the right places. His crystal-blue eyes held a sensual playfulness that had enchanted many a human being for someone so young, but Ciel knew what lay further – that strange brightness, the way they glinted and turned sharp as knives sometimes – Ciel knew Alois, and he knew that boy was at the least unstable, at the most insane.

And he was Ciel's best friend.

He stayed silent as Alois suddenly realized who he was approaching – his face changed on a dime, eyebrows scrunched and eyes wide as he ran forwaard.

"CIEL?"

_God _it was good to hear his voice. Ciel gave a small tired smile, feeling every muscle in his body relax. "Alois."

Ciel's eyes widened as Alois broke into a run, barreling toward him at full speed, arms out-stretched and heeled boots machine-gunning. He took a step back.

"No, no Alois – WAIT –"

He choked off when Alois' body slammed into his, and then he was getting the life squeezed out of him by two deceptively strong and vise-like arms, vision going bright and ears ringing.

"OH MY WORD CIEL I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD!"

He gasped, struggling to breath. "No – but – will be –"

"I THOUGHT THOSE FUCKERS HAD KILLED YOU! I'VE BEEN PLANNING MY REVENGE!"

"Alois – "

"OH CIEL I FUCKING LOVE YOU MATE –"

"ALOIS!"

All motion stopped when Alois looked down into Ciel's dirty face, and Ciel wouldn't have been surprised if his lips were blue. Whatever he looked like, Alois seemed to agree that air was a necessity in Ciel's case, so he released him with wide sky-blue eyes, holding him at arm's length. Air rushed into his lungs and the decadent contents of the room stopped spinning and dropped back into place.

"Ciel."

Ciel's eyes flicked over to Alois' face, and electric light blue eyes slammed into his undamaged one.

"You made it back. You survived them."

Ciel took in one last breath, and did not break his gaze.

Didn't think.

"I survived them."

* * *

><p>His black painted fingers tap-tap-tapped against the beautiful thick wood table, pausing to brush wet grey-blue hair back from his raw forehead. Months of dirt and grime removed by three maids who did not beat around the bush, who dressed him in new clothes that smelled like lavender, and now he was waiting for some Earl Grey with a dry mouth. All because Alois had pinched his nose five minutes into their reunion and told him "Whew, you smell like something dead, mate! Can we get Ciel cleaned up, people?"<p>

Despite the rough treatment, he felt reborn. He felt like he used to, like the old Ciel. How did Alois help him so much so quickly?

The chair across the table from his groaned against the floor and he looked up and Alois was there, electric blue eyes intent on his face. When he opened his mouth his voice was gentle.

"How are you, Ciel?"

His mouth was still dry. He felt numb.

_How am I there are no words everything torn down and now I have to biuld it back up again –_

He didn't think before responding.

"I just want tea."

As if on cue – and knowing the Trancy household, it probably was just that – a servant backed into the tea room with a cart and tray full of what Ciel knew would be everything he loved most. He oggled the servant's motions for a moment before turning back with blurry eyes to see Alois' insistent, concerned expression.

"What happened while you were gone?"

Ciel did not think about what happened. He took a deep breath and made sure to keep his voice steady.

"They took me into a forest, bound me as a prisoner, and I was sentenced to serve their leader, like some sort of...child butler, or slave. There was abuse, and it was not a pleasant job. I gained a lot of information, but the Protestant leader is cunning and has likely already covered his tracks. My efforts were probably in vain."

It was quiet for a moment. And then, "What did the leader do to you?"

Ciel felt a steel sword slice into his heart and he had to remind himself to breathe through the pain. "Sebastian Michaelis, he...nothing that hasn't been done to me before. He was uncreative with the abuse -"

(_pretty fucking creative with the abuse_)

"– and I've undergone worse, several times over. The most unacceptable bit was the humiliation. Being forced to kneel on the ground before all those vile dogs, day after day – was torture. He will suffer a fate worse than death for it. _No one _insults my pride, _no one._"

His heart was thumping (how had he not realized that) and he felt _angry, _angry for everything Sebastian – _Michealis –_ had done to him and he wanted vengeance against the man who'd thrown him into the dirt and called him a mongrel, an animal, a _dog _and that man had it so reversed that Ciel was looking forward to ripping him apart.

He blinked through his mis-matched eyes' blurry haze and Alois was still patiently waiting across the table for him, sitting in his decadent little room and his rich-hued clothes and his servant in the corner making them tea. There was a lot of purple in this room, in the walls, on the corner tables, in Alois' coat. What a different world this was, from the one he'd just come from.

"So have you thought about what you might do about it?"

Ciel took a deep breath as his Earl Grey clinked down before him. He grabbed up his cup, the effort it took to take polite, socially acceptable sips nearly drowning him when the taste of the long-missed brew set all his senses on fire and he just wanted _moremoremore. _

"I have a number of ideas, but all of them depend on how much the information I have serves our side. One way or another, I will have my revenge."

Alois chuckled. "I know you will, mate. Your hatred's not the watered-down sort."

Ciel looked down into his cup, gazing at his own distorted tea-reflection while he thought of the queen, and how she'd gotten away with destroying him all these years. "Yes, I s'pose you're right, Alois. I want him to feel pain before I kill him. Heathen fucker."

Alois shot back in his chair a little, setting his tea in front of him and breaking into a huge grin and Ciel realized Alois hadn't showed any discomfort from looking at his uncovered eye. "Ciel, 's almost as vulgar as me! You learn a few new words in the woods, did you?"

His lips quirked up of their own accord, and a little bit of life worked its way into his lungs. "A few, yeah. No one in that little camp has a clean mouth, all as filthy as their souls."

Alois laughed his loud, contagious laugh and Ciel felt his chest loosen further, the blade jammed between his ribs dissolving a little more.

"They're all illiterate fucking animals, this war'll be an extermination. What kind of information did you catch hold of, anything good?"

Ciel took a deep breath. "A lot, the identities of a few spies, the infrastructure of their forces, the supplies they use...only problem is their migration system, none of this is useful unless we know where they're camped."

Alois nodded. "What about the spies, any names I'd recognize?"

Ciel shrugged. "Probably. All the ones mentioned are caught, dead or both. They didn't trust me long enough to start telling me the live ones."

The blonde's eyes bulged. "You got them to _trust you_? How the hell did you manage that one?"

Ciel shook his head. "It wasn't easy. I managed to be civil to the leader long enough that he even let me attend their strategy meetings. Really, how thick could you get, inviting the _Queen's Gaurd Dog _to listen in on your attack plans?"

It felt good to insult him, made things less complicated for a moment. Alois barked a laugh, grinning like a fool. "And this sot was running an army?"

"Don't be fooled though, he's naïve and that'll be what kills him, but he's a genius. Not someone to be trifled with in war, he was the one who decided to make the army mobile."

Alois shook his head, taking a quick sip of his tea. "So he bears an obvious chink in the steel armor, that's always good. Not likely the heretic'll trust _us_ in war, but we'll get some of his army to spy for us."

Ciel looked past him, stare boring into the gold-painted wall while his thoughts clouded and the blade in his chest fought the warm relief he felt. "Perhaps, if we consulted the correct people. His army seemed very loyal to him."

Alois smiled, and Ciel's eyes flicked onto his face. "Everyone has a price they're willing to sell at, mate. Loyalty is an illusion."

Ciel thought of the queen, and he nodded. "That is true...The price will be high though, they're an insolently tight-knit bunch. I killed a man among them who revealed himself to be a traitor during the duel, and they still insisted that he was a good man. Only reason I was driven out before I could gain more information."

Alois raised his eyebrows. "So they have traitors already? It'll be simple to plant a rotten seed amongst them."

Ciel shook his head. "This man was barely part of their spiritual cause, he was sleeping with a Catholic priest."

The blonde's mouth dropped open. "Oh-ho-ho! That's the kind of shit I would do! Which one?"

Ciel chuckled. "He was a rather loose fellow. William Spears, I think."

Alois got quiet. "...Do you think William might be...?

"No no, not at all. Grell Sutcliff, the Protestant traitor, was a Catholic, I wonder if Spears even knew where the man spent most of his nights."

Alois shook his head. "So you killed him then? He could've been useful to our force."

"Tch. Not in the least, he was as useful to theirs as a dungpile. All he did was dally about and flirt with every man in sight, his treason contained not a drop of strategy."

"...Someone should talk to William though, yeah? He could get himself into trouble, with all the sleeping around he gets up to."

His heart pounded violently and he reminded himself that he was _here, now _and that William Spears was preaching away across the city with dead lover he'd never know about. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and lifted the cup to his lips, listening to his heart slow before speaking. Breathe, sip, swallow. Breathe. Just like every other time, he calmed himself.

"Spears is a grown man, and his salary is earned off of that sort of behavior anyway. I doubt he would be subject to a penalty even if the authorities knew who Sutcliff was."

Alois nodded thoughtfully, staying quiet for a moment – and really, moments such as these were few and far between – before opening his mouth to speak again.

"Well despite the dashed opportunities for more spyin', I am glad you made it back. I thought you were dead, Ciel."

He sighed and looked down at his empty tea cup, the leaves at the bottom threatening to pull a sigh from his lips. He knew it was crude of him but he couldn't help but want more.

"I'm glad to be back as well, Alois. I was beginning to think I might go mad if I had to serve those dogs any longer."

Alois smiled, and reached into his pocket and held something across the table.

"No need to go mad now, mate. You're back where you belong."

Ciel looked down at Alois' pale hand and saw a black eyepatch. His heart pounded in his rib cage, and he had the strangest urge to smile. He reached his hand out and took hold of the soft black fabric, running his fingers along the cloth in a kind of awed trance. He was back. As if nothing had happened.

"Now I can't imagine how tired you are, had quite a lot to take in – Thompson! Can we get a room up for Ciel, yeah? One with a soothing color scheme, like purple or somethin'!"

* * *

><p>At the insistence of the head of the Trancy household, Ciel remained in Alois' manor for three days before returning home. During that time Alois forced him out of his paisley-hued guest room for tea, chatting, taking a walk through the extensive, beautiful garden every now and then and allowing the gentle breeze to toss the thoughts loose from his head. Alois never pushed or invaded Ciel's privacy more than necessary, but the interruptions prevented Ciel from falling too deeply into his own head and that was probably Alois' goal.<p>

The house of the Queen's Spider had always been a rather two-faced one, with Alois' desperate attempts to bury all traces of the former owner of the estate. Ciel knew how much Alois hated walking through the house and seeing traces of what had once been his horrific life, its early color schemes, ornate décor and even the shape of the vaulted ceilings haunting the blonde earl. The result was constant redecoration – Ciel could not count the number of times he'd visited to see servants painting the walls a rich new color, or hauling in new furniture with a style drastically different from the last set, or building and breaking down walls in the manor for a new floor plan. The undying changes gave the impression that the house itself was running from ghosts hiding in the walls.

And Ciel knew why Alois did it – the blonde had had a difficult life, after all. His mid-class parents had died when he was young, leaving himself and his younger brother to wander the streets as urchins. When servants of the former Queen's Spider rolled into the their town and grabbed Alois, the brothers were seperated. He was brought to the Trancy estate and served as a sex slave, trudging through the horor and repulsion to slowly gain the favor of his master until the Earl's death, and was satisfied to see that the old man had left Alois his name, property and social standing. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, the revolution of the Trancy estate at Alois' hands was a magnificent one – he freed the boys from their bunks, released the servants from their occupations and for a few terrible weeks Alois was alone, running the house of his nightmares.

But Alois quickly pulled himself out of the panicked silence and began throwing money at anyone who would take it – he hired new servants to tend to the house and grounds, brought people in to remodel (the same ones were brough _back _in every couple of weeks when the walls became too familiar) and soon learned the ins and outs of managing a gigantic household, all at the age of eleven.

Once Ciel had asked him why, with his extensive resources, he hadn't tried to find his younger brother. Why wasn't Luka in the manor, after all? Alois had thrown a tea cup at him with manic eyes, screaming of course he'd tried, he'd been trying for years you fucking prick, and every source he'd contacted had come back saying Luka, the one he'd walked through the Spider's hell to find again, was dead.

He hadn't talked to Ciel for two weeks.

Alois, now fifteen, had worked his way up the ranks of society, keeping himself busy as the Queen's Spider and usually filling his days of leisure with "new friends," where he would reenter the dark world the late Earl had inducted him into, but this time he was in control and _had a choice. _He seemed to have overcome his past well. He hadn't, Ciel knew this very well and could relate himself, but from the outside the Earl Trancy was a sassy, sultry and confident noble who seized every day.

He wondered sometimes, why he never went to Alois with his struggles regarding his own past; but the fact remained that Alois was a runner, and Ciel was a fighter. The two young earls were friends because of their simlarities in age, social standing and past sufferings, but they coped differently with all of this. They were the same, yet opposites.

So staying with Alois for three days was both refreshing and private, and gradually Ciel felt the clouds in his head start to clear, and he felt his resolve strengthen. _Of course _he had never been attatched to the Protestants and their cause. He hadn't felt fond of Sebastian Michaelis, and had certainly never fancied him. He had never wanted to join their side. He had deceived them all the whole time, slowly gaining their trust and vital information along with it. And now he was a step closer to killing Michaelis...because he had made Ciel kneel on the ground at his feet and call him master. Because he wasn't a _servant_, and the fact that Michaelis had treated him like he was earned him an execution.

Simple, that was all.

Yes, joining the Protestants would've given him leave to kill the queen. Yes, that was and always would be his ultimate end. But he didn't have to join in arms with heathens to kill her, he knew that now.

* * *

><p><em>Leader: Sebastian Michaelis<em>

_Troops: Roughly 200 in number_

_Supplies: More than enough bullets, gunpowder, close-range weapons, et al._

_Location: Unknown, migratory; thickly forested areas of hiding_

_Strategy: much unknown, small mass of troops and skilled weapon users_

_Weaknesses: medicinal remedies are_

* * *

><p><em>Leader: Sebastian Michaelis<em>

_Troops: Roughly 200 in number_

_Supplies: More than enough bullets, gunpowder, close-range weapons, medicinal remedies, et al._

_Location: Unknown, migratory; thickly forested areas of hiding_

_Skills: All weapons known to England_

_Routine: Target practice with guns the day before they_

* * *

><p><em>Leader: Sebastian Michaelis<em>

_Troops: Roughtly 200 in number_

_Supplies: More than enough bullets, gunpowder, close-range weapons, medicinal remedies, et al._

_Location: Unknown, migratory._

_Skills: All weapons known to England_

_Notes: It will be dificult to locate them, and with that disadvantage, they will likely be in a position to make the first move._

* * *

><p>"Young Master, it is time to start the day."<p>

His good eye cracked open to glare at Tanaka, his old butler as he tied back the thick velvet curtains of his bedroom. The morning sun made the richly colored walls, fabrics and furniture glow with early light and Ciel scrubbed at his eyes before sitting up with a yawn. He blinked around at the dark chestnut floors and white chest of drawers on the other side of his spacious bedroom. He'd always kept it sparse, ever since he'd had the manor rebuilt. Aside from the dresser only a couple little end tables shared the space with his huge white four poster bed.

He rubbed his eyes without saying anything to Tanaka as he shuffled to the edge of the bed, waiting for his butler to dress him. Mind blurry and vision clouded, he sat quietly, squinting against the bright light of the open window as Tanaka tugged this way and that, removing his dressing gown and replacing it with today's attire.

"A letter from the Queen awaits you, Young Master. I will bring it to your study along with breakfast momentarily."

He blinked slowly at the ground, mind still far beneath his warm white covers. He had another job for today. The third one this week, and it was only Tuesday. Probably the Queen's way of saying his presense had been missed.

All the jobs thus far had been carried out smoothly, and they did well to keep Ciel's mind off more important things. The skill and concentration it required to weild the weapons he did, not to mention the emotional steeling and desensitization that came naturally with murder blocked almost all thought entirely. His calm and smooth demeanor would never allow him to express it out loud, but he looked forward to the Queen's letters as one would anticipate coming home after a long day at work.

He slid off the bed, the last of sleep's warmth leaving his body and it did its job clearing the cobwebs from his head a little. He looked up and nodded to Tanaka, the gray butler's eyes glowing with some sort of old warmth. He was the only one who'd been with him since before his parents had been killed, and Ciel hoped he would never have to replace Tanaka due to age.

He passed through his white bedroom into the hallway, traversed a flight of stairs, passed by a few maids who chirped him a good morning with no response, and it wasn't long before he was sitting in his study. _God_, he needed tea. He was so useless in the morning without it.

He'd been home for a little over three weeks. Sent his report to the Queen, received new assassination orders as a thank you a day later. Not that he minded. It was best to get back into the swing of things all at once, it was how he functioned. He lounged in his high-backed chair, mindful that it was the morning and he shouldn't be getting so comfortable with such a full day ahead, but tea would be coming soon anyway. His eye drifted about the room blurrily, and oh how he just wanted to sleep for a little longer...

_Never lose this strength, my Ciel –_

"Young master!"

He shot forward, heart pumping. Tanaka was standing before him in his emmaculate black suit, a cup of tea in one hand, a tray bearing a letter in the other and a disapproving frown on his lips. Why was it so bright in this room?

"It is most certainly not the time for napping, young master. Not when you have such a busy day before you."

He scowled, grabbing up the tea and feeling the hot liquid pour down his throat as he took a quick swig. "I'm well aware Tanaka, thank you. It's not as if I did it on purpose."

Tanaka stared for a moment, old eyes boring into him and pinning him to his chair. He glared defiantly back, taking another long sip.

"Is everything alright, young master? You have been rather fatigued during the day, are you sleeping well?"

Ciel looked away with a frown. "Yes, I am. It is morning, I am tired every morning. That's all."

Tanaka paused a moment, then nodded. "Very well, sir. Breakfast will be brought to you shortly."

Ciel nodded, looking down and seeing the Queen's letter still on the tray. "Mhmm."

He heard the door shut as Tanaka eited the room, and he felt the quiet and lack of people push against his ears like loud cries. He was sleeping fine. He'd always had nightmares, dreams that disturbed his sleep, so it wasn't as if he was getting any less rest than usual. But he would never admit the content of the most recent dreams, unusual as they were.

He took a deep breath, listening as the sound pushed back the silence beating at his eardrums and proceded to open the letter titled _Ciel Phantomhive _as loudly as he could. Getting out of the house would do him some good, he thought as he unfolded the paper and read.

_Earl,_

_Rumors have spread of a woman with white hair gathering an army to support the Protestant cause. Find her, and exterminate her and her forces. She was last seen outside of London, to the east. Begin your search there._

_Best,_

_Her Majesty the Queen, Mary Tudor I_

His eyes scanned the page twice more. A woman, leading an army? This would be a unique case, at least. He ripped the letter to scraps, the Queen's newest task keeping the pressure in his ears at bay. What woman would _desire _to lead an army? She would likely be ostentatious, easy to find once he was in the right area. A woman with white hair and a warlike presence, perhaps with a caravan of pitchfork-weilding giants in her wake. If the image dreamed up in his mind looked anything like the real traitor, this would make for an easy and amusing task indeed.

He brushed the scraps on the floor for a maid to gather up later just as Tanaka returned to the room, a tray full of something that looked delicious in his gloved hands. Ciel saw his eyes flick to the floor where the paper lay, but his butler said nothing of it as he sat the tray down in front of him and Ciel got an eyeful of whatever pastry the cooks had prepared for him.

"This morning for breakfast a pancake bread stuffed with fruit and jelly filling has been prepared for you."

Ciel wrenched his eyes away. He _really _enjoyed sweets. He hadn't realized how much he'd enjoyed them while he was away until his return, but now the cooks were used to preparing more sweets than usual due to his constant demands for more.

"Thank you, Tanaka. Prepare my carriage, I will leave after breakfast."

Tanaka inclined his head. "Where are you headed, young master?"

"Queen's business. I must leave the city, to the eastern outskirts. But I'm going to the Trancy Manor first."

Tanaka bowed at the waist. "Very well, sir. A carriage will be ready for you by the time you have eaten."

Ciel nodded absently, his head full of the Queen's letter. He raised his fork and took the first bite of his breakfast, eyes closing without his permission as he made a small sound.

"Does young master approve of his meal?" Tanaka's voice may have held some amusement, but the old man had been a butler for so many years it was difficult to tell when he hid it so well. So Ciel simply looked back up at him, trying not to look too startled after having been broken from his sugar-driven trance.

"Yes, I do. Now go prepare my carriage, I don't want to set out a moment too late."

Tanaka bowed, a smile playing on his lips. Yes, there it was, that was amusement. Ciel's eye narrowed slightly. "Very well, sir." With that he turned and left the room.

Ciel's uncovered eye flicked back to the treat in front of him. "Crusty fucker," he muttered with no real malice, before lifting his fork to take the next bite.

* * *

><p>"Come, Ciel, I have something to show you."<p>

He looked up and his father was there, all warm eyes and outstretched hands and Ciel eagerly removed himself from the Plato his tutor had assigned him. It seemed to Ciel that Socrates just liked to hear himself talk over people – and Ciel didn't understand most of what he said, anyway.

It was rare now that he and his father got to spend time together – his parents were both busy with big important adult things like the English government and religion. His parents had been hosting more and more fancy parties, and they and their dressed-up guests always talked about religion, a lot. Ciel didn't understand any of those matters though, and would just as soon leave them for his dear parents to wrestle with.

His father smiled at him, his black hair falling across his handsome forehead and Ciel reached up and grabbed his hand.

"Come, this way."

Ciel followed along, feet falling into the plush lavender carpet as they left the room together.

"Father, where are we going?" He had announced his decision to stop calling him _daddy _some months back. He wasn't a little kid anymore, his eighth birthday had already passed.

"It's a surprise, Ciel. You'll enjoy it."

His father led him out doors, through halls, down staircases, and soon Ciel stood at his front door. His eyes widened a little.

"Father, are we going out there?"

His father looked down at him. "Yes, of course. Have you no shoes?"

Ciel stared up at him and shook his head, and his father smiled.

"It's no trouble son, here –"

Before Ciel could say anything more his father had hoisted him up piggy-back style, and Ciel giggled and smiled brightly.

"We are ready now, father!"

He heard the smile in his father's voice. "Yes we are, Ciel."

His father opened the door and on the other side it was so dark, Ciel shivered before he silently repremanded himself. He wasn't a kid anymore, the dark was nothing to be scared of. His father walked out and out, toward what Ciel knew to be the gardens during the daytime, and Ciel wondered if it was the same when the sun went down.

The gravel crunched under his fathers feet and his hold was firm, and Ciel knew he wouldn't fall, no matter how dark it was. He looked back at the house and it seemed so bright, seemed to almost sparkle in the black night and he longed to be back inside.

"We're here, Ciel."

Ciel turned to look, and he barely made out the small half-moon grove of tall trees he always played in during the day. It looked so different now – during the day it was bright and full of colors and it stoof in Ciel's life as a place of cheer and laughter. At night though, the trees loomed sinisterly, casting tall black shadows and looking old and gloomy. It was as if the place had lost its youth and grown old with the night.

"Father...why –"

"Ciel, I'm going to set you down on the grass. Then you'll see."

Ciel felt himself being lowered to the ground before he felt the cold grass that he swore had been green that afternoon, but now looked a washed-out grey color, filled with something sad. He looked back up at his father, who to Ciel's shock was lowering himself to the ground as well.

"Fath –"

"Lie down, Ciel. You'll have trouble seeing them as you stand."

He scrunched his eyebrows before lowering himself half-heartedly to the cold grass, the chill making him shiver as he laid down on his back next to his father. A childish fear ran through his back, that the trees would come alive now and loom over him with an old, eyeless stare while he lay down on the grass, and that he'd be cast into their black shadow. He turned his head in his father's prone direction, eyebrowed still knitted.

"What are we doing down here?"

He heard a small smile in his father's voice. "Look up, Ciel."

Ciel obeyed, and his eyes widened instantly. There were so many stars! A million tiny pinpricks of brilliant white light that sparkled a lot more than the house had, and he gasped in delight.

"There are so many of them, father!"

He heard his warm, deep chuckle. "Of course there are, son. This is what's hiding in the night when we're all cooped up asleep in our houses. We would never think to look for anything beautiful out here at a time like this, it's too frightful, eh?"

Ciel nodded in agreement, looking around at the gloomy grove. The black trees climbing up into the highest reaches of the sky still scared him with their huge, dark shadows, but he didn't want to go back inside as much now as he had before. He turned back to look at the stars.

"Where do they come from, father?"

The man shifted next to him. "We don't know, Ciel. Most people across history has said they tell us our future. There are references you might find in Homer's works, if you read them again. It is the general assumption of most that the stars control fate, much like God does."

Ciel's eyes widened, his eyes training on a pinprick brighter than the others. "Does God live up there, then?"

"Perhaps he does."

Ciel thought about it, and his eyebrows scrunched again. "But father...if God lives up there in the stars, why wouldn't the stars come out during the day as well to control fate? Wouldn't God want to be seen and noticed all the time?"

His father chuckled. "That's the beauty of life, Ciel – God _is _there for us to notice him, all the time. During the day, there's so much light and everyone feels safe and warm, it's easy to acknowledge God's presense among us. But after the sun goes down and it gets cold at night, when things are dark and dismal – he lets us know he's still there for us to see, if we just look up."

Ciel blinked as he soaked in those words, thinking of the time when Socrates said to Glaucon that being able to see the sky's light meant you were a fully educated grown up...or something like that, Ciel hadn't read too carefully. He said you had to look around and see light if you wanted to be a man, even though most grown-ups he knew said adults had to go through a lot of pain and suffering before they weren't kids anymore. With all the differing opinions, he wasn't quite sure who he ought to look to for lessons in adulthood. He'd bet anything, though, that he wouldn't find answers with Socrates.

But looking around at the dark, washed-out trees that reminded him of old men and scary danger, he was thankful the stars were up there anyway.

* * *

><p>A nameless, emaculately-dressed Trancy servant led Ciel to the tea room without a word, exiting the moment Ciel sat down in his high-backed chair. Ciel leaned back with a bit of a sigh – the morning exhaustion had faded into mist with the drivve over here, but all the rest weighing him down remained firm and solid. Ciel smacked back all the loose thoughts in his head until they stood together in a neat little back corner and Ciel could almost hear himself think.<p>

_Never lose this stength, my –_

_We devilish Protestants ought to have the right to dance in the flames!_

_You are not an island –_

_Remember who it was that ripped your soul from your body!_

Ciel srunched both eyes closed and _growled, audibly _and that was almost enough to make him gasp audibly too. What had gotten into him lately? He was an unraveled mess.

Ciel looked down at the grain of Alois' wooden tea table, leaning forward and swallowing back the urge to vomit. He was on edge, that much he was willing to admit to himself. No matter how he filled his day and spent his time, everything from his most recent Protestant stint with Michealis to his Conversion thrusted him into a near panic and he hadn't the slightest clue why.

He heard the door open and he knew Alois was there and the mood he was in from his gate, all before he even looked up. His visible eye narrowed as he took in Trancy's bright-eyed appearance, showy clothes ruffled, hair mussed and a small flush powdering both cheeks.

"Well there is little wonder what _you've_ been up to."

Alois grinned playfully, the smallest bit of defensiveness in the edges of his ice-blue, _dilated _eyes. "And what's that supposed to mean, Phantomhive?"

Ciel gave him a look, and stayed silent. Alois shifted a moment before moving a little _stiffly _to find his seat across from his friend, gesturing for the hapless servant in the corner to bring tea. Ciel leaned back a little, doing his upmost to look bored.

"And who is it that you have deemed worthy enough to _invite _into your house? This is a novelty."

Alois' blue eyes shifted to Ciel's left a little, and Ciel smirked. "Come now, spit it out."

Alois cleared his throat, and was that a flicker of _guilt _in his expression? "I felt it best to have a conversation in person...with William Spears about his behavior."

Ciel's blood ran cold, and his heart leapt to his throat as he stared.

"At first all we did was talk, I swear, but – William and I have known one another for a right long time, and – it happened, simple as that."

The remnants of guilt left Alois' eyes and his voice grew firm at the end, just as the screaming started up in Ciel's head, as if some phantom was leaving his friend's body and entering his own. He could not speak, and the roaring in his ears made his heart hammer in his chest and he focused on controling his lungs.

"And Ciel, I know that he was probably there when you were Converted, he always is for everyone, but I think it's about time for you to move on from that, eh? He does what he does for a living, it wasn't anything personal. On the contrary, he did it with your best intersts at heart. He serves a purpose for the Church –"

"Shut up." He said the words so quietly it seemed to freeze Alois in his tracks.

_Be cleaned of your ungodliness heathen. You like this don't you? I see you will have much trouble adjusting._

"W-what?"

He stood, blood roaring in his ears and the tea room faded in and out of his vision, only half-real. The other half of him lay out on a stone table in a very dark place and there were cages and masks and blood and Submission was an agony worse, so much worse than any punishment Pain could ever unleash.

He blinked again and the tea room was back, and Alois sat in front of him looking confused and a little scared. Ciel stood slowly.

"I said shut up. You, Alois Trancy, have defiled and degraded yourself for the obscenity of what you have just done."

Ciel saw that well-hidden insanity that crept just below the storm of his sky eyes as they narrowed dangerously, and when he spoke his tone was sharp and high.

"And what exactly _is _it that I have done so wrong in your eyes, friend?"

Ciel could breathe. If he kept fighting, he could breathe and see and hear and he would not fall back into that dungeon again.

"You invited a Catholic Priest to your house. A priest who not only delights in fucking the will out of future Catholics, future _allies, _but also had sex with a Protestant rebel, a traitor to England's Queen. That sin swims in your blood now, you filth."

And how was it that Grell Sutcliff, that _William Spears_ was spreading like a sickness to every part of his life? Decaying it as it rotted through, chunk by chunk.

Across from his Alois bore teeth, and shouted, deranged and furious. "Yeah, you stand there like the dignified son of a noble you are, you stand there and PRETEND you weren't fucked by him as well for THREE STRAIGHT FUCKING MONTHS!"

Ciel saw stars, everything was white hot and burning and he would never enjoy killing another human being as much as he'd enjoy this. He lept across the table, hand reaching out to grab for Alois' neck but the blonde twisted away with a hiss and both came out on their feet – The Queen's Spider was trained for killing as well, even if to a lesser extent than her Guard Dog. Ciel looked him in the eyes, fire hot in his own and he lunged forward, fist crashing like stone into Alois' jaw and the blonde was hurled off his feet and he slammed to the ground, eyes wide. Ciel stood over him and his eye felt glazed even to him as he spoke softly, heart pounding.

"If I had a gun I would kill you right now."

Alois stared up at him, looking him squarely in the face. "I would do the same, had I one. You called me degraded, you filthy hypocrite."

Ciel scowled looking around to stare at the walls, already changed since the last time he'd visited and a fire exploded in his stomach. He could not believe _anyone _would have the _gall _to force from their mouth the words Alois had just spoken. The fire bathed him in heat. "_I _was forced _against my will _to have sex with that man. _You _partake in that vulgarity of your own volition, then chastise _me_ for not doing the same. As if you would write off _your_ experiences with the late _Trancy _so eagerly, _I do not think so_."

Each word poisoned the other, and Ciel knew it. Alois was livid. "Our experiences were _hardly _the same! Mine was a trial I was forced to endure, _yours _was for your own good!"

Ciel didn't think as his vision turned red, and the next thing he knew Alois was sprawled out on the plush carpet with a bleeding nose, and Ciel had the sneaking suspicion he'd just kicked him hard in the face. He looked down his nose, head held high and he'd never been so angry in his life.

"It is _time_ to keep your mouth _SHUT_, Trancy –" He bent down and his fists rained down on Alois' head, on his chest, stomach, everywhere that would hurt and he wasn't thinking anymore, simply relishing in this release of anger and pain and the voices weren't bothering him much now that they'd gotten what they wanted, every part of him aching for nothing more than to beat the shit out of this bastard before him –

"STOP! STOP, PLEASE, I'M SORRY, _PLEASE STOP_!"

Ciel looked down and Alois was curled into a ball, a bloody sobbing heap and Ciel stopped, those words ringing in his ears like a church bell.

_Pleasenostoppleasestopstopstop –_

Ciel could not take this much longer. This being torn at the seams. It was beginning to wear him thin.

_Be cleansed of your ungodliness, heathen._

He leaned down, got right in Alois' bloody snot-covered mess of a face and spoke in a tone that was quiet like a knife.

"I said something similar to William, for three months. And William did not stop. _That _is the man you are defending."

Alois stared straight ahead at the gray and purple pinstriped walls, a blank tired look in his eye and Ciel knew from experience that he probably was not listening anymore, trapped in some hell Ciel knew little _(and too much_) about. Ciel stood and turned toward the door, thinking at each step that he'd tear through this decadent world like thin paper and land in some darker, clearer one. But the air remained as solid a medium as ever and he walked right through it, through the door, through the hall, down the stares and evenually made it back to his own carriage.

_Never lose this strength, my Ciel._

He would not last long like this. He felt unhinged, approaching that territory that most called insanity. Maybe it had been long enough, maybe he'd finally cracked. But whatever mysterious force had brought this on, Ciel _knew _it would destroy everything solid he'd ever known, and he'd be left floating somewhere that didn't exist.

_Taketaketaketake, he was a fountain of agony and filth, this he knew. Stopstopstop taking, everyone stop taking -_

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath. Another, and another. The black on the other side of his lids gave him the reolve to continue till the end of the day. He still had a very full schedule ahead of him, after all. He opened both eyes, though only the undamaged one was seen by the walls of his carriage.

He had a job to do.

* * *

><p>"NO NO, <em>PLEASE –"<em>

Stringy straw-colored hair splattered red as Ciel pulled the trigger of his pistol with a _BANG_. Blood coated the wood wall and the man slid down to the ground, smearing the grime down with him. His blank grey eyes held a frozen horror, turned to stone by the child noble and his gun.

Ciel lowered his smoking weapon and took a breath, cold eyes trained on the corpse. He was at the edge of London where the white-haired woman soldier had last been spotted, a small village full of barns and gardens and sweaty, tired farmers. It was almost mid-day, and he'd begun asking around.

Arnold McCaffrey had told him a beautiful, cruel-looking woman with hair as pale as snow had passed through the town last night, riding off quickly eastward with a small group of savage men with swords. They hadn't stolen anything from the villagers, but their presense had set the people on edge all the same. McCaffrey had directed Ciel to the path they had taken, and Ciel had quickly finished up with the helpful fellow. The back of his skull now decorated the side of his barn.

Her Majesty The Queen had told Ciel when he'd first begun working in her service, chanting it like a prayer: _Always _leave no traces. The years had grinded on, and that lesson had been driven into Ciel's heart like a white-hot brand, as familiar a memory as his name.

From Ciel's questions alone, Arnold McCaffrey had known the Queen was looking for someone. Best to stifle unwanted gossip, to nip it right in the bud and give the villagers something _else _to whisper about.

Ciel stared at McCaffrey's dead grey eyes, his hanging jaw and the damp hair sticking to his sweaty face. His forhead had a hole in it. The back of his head was missing, and he was slumped in a pool of his own blood and grey matter. Gloved hands readjusted his black top hat and he turned and walked away without a word of farewell, boots scratching against the barley at his feet and catching the leather at his ankles here and there.

He walked the short distance back to his carriage and climbed in, shutting his own door behind him.

"Go to the end of this town. At the fork, keep left." He spoke loudly into his driver's distant ears.

"Yes, sir." A moment later the horses were moving, Ciel only catching the dignified snorts as the fruits of their labor.

The sky was overcast. Blessed be the day it wasn't so, but today seemed to Ciel to be particularly gloomy, the sky a blotched-up splash of grey and grey and darker grey, sort of like McCaffrey's eyes, and the striped walls of the Trancy tea room. Not that McCaffrey's death or that wall defined _anything_ about today – the sky had been pregnant with something grim since he'd stepped past the threshold of his own front door four hours ago. This didn't stop Ciel, though, from pulling his pistol out, just for one lonely moment, running his black-tipped fingers along the cold barrel with a narrowed eye and wondering how fragile life was.

He sighed, shaking his head and scrunching his eyes. Yes, he had definitely cracked.

His uncovered eye flicked up to the opposite wall of his carriage, his hands tucking the gun back into his coat. On the bench across from him sat his large locked trunk. He thought next he'd use a close-range weapon – McCaffrey's portrayal of the savage, sword-weilding men had perked Ciel's interest, and he was up for a bit of a challenge before closing in on the woman.

He'd followed her scent like a trail of bread crumbs, leaving a different sort of trail in his wake – the bodies grew to more and more, and he left no one behind to talk. It was his trademark as the Queen's best killer. He left not a trace of his hunt's goal, camouflaging it further with the path of blood he crafted. People would not talk about what Ciel was after, only about what the Queen's Guard Dog had done this time. His reputation was that of a natural disaster, sweeping people up and crushing them without a trace of mercy.

By nightfall he was upon them. Ciel peared from his window to see the torches sloppily lighting the way to his destination, the mouth of a mountain-side cavern opening wide welcome him. He glanced over at his wooden crate as the coach came to a stop, and he stood lazily to dig the key from his pocket, unlock the crate and grab up the weapons he was looking so forward to using against her men; a sword at his hip, a dagger in his belt and a bow and quiver of arrows on his back just to mix it up a little.

He turned to his carriage door. It was time to kill some heathens. Ciel opened the door and stepped down into the newborn night, his gate energized and confident. The half-dead grass and leaves smashed beneath his feet as he peared into the mouth of the cave, black silouhette barely visible against the growing night as his carriage trotted away to a safer nearby location. His heart danced in his ribs as his lips quirked into a small jittery smile and then he was in the cave, his vision turning completely black.

His first thought was how he'd felt walking through the woods to meet Grell Sutcliff for their duel. How on his way to the clearing and on his way from it, he'd been blind, shrouded in black on all sides. He hadn't been bothered by the darkness – only by what had happened in the light of the man's torch. And then they'd dueled and he'd –

He shook his head a little as his senses went on high alert, compensating happily for his lack of visibility. It smelled like any other cave, of cold damp rocks and stale dust. He thought he heard the rumble of distant voices, perhaps miles off, but he couldn't be sure. He trudged over uneven ground with silent skill, breath soundless and excited as he ate up the ground and traversed further and further down into the mountain.

Minutes passed and his focus never dulled, anticipation fueling his every step. And then he saw it: light was shining down from a long fork in the cave. It was so dim Ciel never would've caught it above ground, but anything was brighter than the black he walked through and _she was down here. _The sword at his hip instantly weighed a few pounds more and a small smile crept to the edge of his lips. He hugged the wall of the cave as he started silently down the new path leading to the light. As the light grew more intense, so did the voices he'd half-believed were figments of his overexcited imagination. Down and down he went, and he listened to the conversation of the two men talking.

"I mean what sort of weapons are we being given? I would be better prepared if I'd brought my suppah knife along with me."

"It's not your place to complain, you sot. This is more safety than we could ever hope for."

"Perhaps, _now. _And what happens when war breaks out, hah?"

A snort that resonated off the walls of the cave, probably for miles. Neither of these fools knew what _in hiding _usually meant, and Ciel rolled his eyes in the dark. "When war breaks out, we're _all _dead, don't matter what God we believe in. If you'd not joined this side you'd only end up dying with the Catholics. The result's the same."

Ciel was right behind them now. The one complaining was huge and tall, built like a man used to lifting massive things. Further from Ciel was the man obviously the more loyal of the two, with black hair and a matching grizzly beard. Ciel cleared his throat and chuckled as they both jumped a foot in the air, turning with petrified eyes in his direction. "Perhaps you're correct on that last point."

The loyal one lifted a primitive-looking spear. "Who are you?"

Ciel smiled grimly. "I am Earl Ciel Phantomhive."

"Wha –"

Ciel unsheathed the sword at his hip and they both gasped, the huge man raising a staff to swing with enough force to break Ciel's skull. He ducked with ease, staff slamming with a _twang _against the wall at his back, and straightened just in time to see the bearded man turn and run.

He laughed, eye flickering in the dim light from his current opponent and the man he'd been expecting to put up a better fight. The huge man howled when Ciel thrust his sword cleanly into the man's giant belly, twisting before sliding it back out. The man choked on his pain and his eyes glazed like a dead fish's as he crashed to his knees, gurgling a little.

Ciel finished up with a clean slice to the neck, blood pouring as he stilled on the ground. He continued on to the not-so-loyal man, sheathing the filthy sword and pulling out the dagger at his belt. He heard the man's breathing from behind a bend in the stone tunnel, and shot forward.

The man yelped when Ciel whipped around the corner and reached up to grab a handful of beard, yanking down hard enough to topple the man to the stone ground. Terror was visible in his eyes as his breath came in hard, desperate gasps and he clammored back on his hands and knees. Ciel kicked him to the ground, bending to speak with the knife in his hand.

"You know, everyone has a price they're willing to sell at...but I had overestimated your loyalty." The man was petrified, eyes wide like a deer's. "Talking is an easy thing to do, but when a man is tested more intimately, you learn who he really is."

The man choked out a terrified sob, eyes locked on Ciel's knife.

"But I, like everyone else, have a price I'm willing to sell at, _my _intimate nature – I want information. You want to live. I can make this easy for you."

His sobbing was starting to get on Ciel's nerves. He brought the knife up to the man's neck with a narrowed eye.

"If you don't keep quiet, however, I can assure you there will be no hope for a bargain. I do not tolerate such weakness."

One more sob, then terrified silence, the man clenching his mouth shut and gasping through his nose, eyes wide and locked on Ciel's eye.

"That's better." He kept the knife on his throat, feeling nothing. "Now I need you to answer my questions. Nod if you understand."

A fervant head tremor. Good enough. "Who resides within the confines of this cave?"

The whisper was sweaty and breathless. His breath stank and Ciel did not cringe, hand steady on his dagger. "Our army, our army lives here!"

His voice was the polar opposite of this man's, calm and cold and ominously childish. "What cause are you fighting for?"

"The Protestant faith."

"Against the Queen?"

Terrified. "Yes!"

"I see. Who is your general?"

He shook his head wildly. "I have never seen her in person!"

Ciel almost smiled. "Her?"

"Yes, our general in female!"

"She is in this cave right now?"

"Yes!"

He smiled, and he could feel the madness in his visible eye as he leaned down. "Thank you for your cooperation, sir."

He lifted the dagger and brought it down on his neck, just slow enough that the man's eyes filled with fear and primal desperation. His voice was choked off before he could beg for his life. Ciel stared down at the bleeding man with a stone eye.

"We never agreed to a deal after all, coward. Your life was mine from the start."

The man's eyes drifted up to the ceiling of the cave as he fell back, mouth wide open to draw in air that would never come. Ciel stood and watched until the last of the life in his eyes turned cold. He stared a moment longer before turning without a word and setting out again to the source of the cave's dim light, blood splashing the ground in his wake.

He walked more loudly, with more presense than before. So it was no surprise when he was spotted quicker than near the entrance – this time by three men whose faces instantly broke alive with wild ferocity. Ciel unsheathed his bloody sword with cold eyes as they charged at once, and sliced the first across the belly the second he approached. He fell to the ground with a groan as the other two stared in horror at their fallen comrade.

"But – he's just a kid –"

Ciel pursed his lips and thrusted his sword between the man's ribs, speaking calmly as he fell to the ground.

"Worthier men have fallen for that very comment, heathen."

The last one met Ciel's eyes, and charged with a cry and nothing but a huge fist. Ciel dropped his sword and ducked beneath it, grabbing the man's wrist and twisting it behind his back. There was a howl of pain, Ciel smirked, and he grabbed the dagger from his belt and reached up and around to slice it across the man's unguarded neck. The man twice his size was down with his comrades a moment later.

Ciel's heart thrummed in his ears as he looked back to examine the bodies dead at his hands, breath heavy. He bent down and grabbed up his sword, kneeling to clean the blood from it with the last man's ragged coat. He stood with a deep breath, sheathed his sword and continued on.

He hugged the wall as he walked deeper into the cave, his ears picking up the fast approach of a soldier. As he rounded the corner he spotted the man running toward the commotion Ciel must have made, and Ciel jumped out. The man jumped in his tracks with a yelp, raising the sword in his hand an instant later with an angry glare.

"Stop! What is your business here?"

His short brown hair lay on his forehead , a scowl right below it, and he looked almost like Aberline. Ciel sauntered further out from the shadows into the dim light, raising his hands slowly with a small smile. "I am stopped."

The man did not faulter. "What is your business here? Answer!"

Ciel's smile widened as he approached. "There is no need for hostility. I have come to speak to your general."

The sword remained firmly between the two of them. Ciel listened closely but heard no other soldiers approaching, and he stepped closer toward the soldier and his sword.

"Be still!"

Ciel smiled wider. "No. No, I don't think I will."

The man's eyes narrowed, and he took a step forward. "_Be. Still. _Or I will cut you down where you stand."

The movement was lightning-fast – Ciel's hand shot to his sword and he unsheathed it right as the soldier charged forward with a cry. Ciel brought his sword up just in time to clash it with the other's, and Ciel thrusted toward the man's stomach, shocked when it was met with a sharp parry. Ciel's eyebrows lifted and he smirked.

"Fair swordplay, sir."

The man charged forward with a roar, slashing toward Ciel's face and he brought his sword up to block the blow, knocking the sword back. Ciel stepped forward instantly with a lunge toward the soldier's knees, which was met with a parry instantly.

Ciel's eye narrowed and he took an inperceptable step back, waiting for him to make the next move. When the soldier lunged forward, right toward his chest, Ciel's sword entwined with his as he'd practiced a thousand times – heart pumping – and Ciel twisted the blade _just so, _the man's eyes widening as he saw his fate seal _– _breath heavy – and the sword flew from his opponent's hand as Ciel disarmed him, clanking against the cave wall five meters away.

The man looked back at him with cagey eyes, backing up a step, then two – and Ciel stalked toward his with a crazed energy and grabbed his coat collar in a vice grip, pulling him down so they were nose to nose.

"Where is your general?"

The man's voice was shaking, scared but brave. "Who are you?"

Ciel threw him to the ground, voice like venom. "I am the Queen's Guard Dog."

He could take it no more – he brought his sword down to embed itself deeply in the man's stomach. There was a cough, a gasp, rolling eyes, and Ciel puled the blade back with a heaving chest.

"WHERE IS YOUR GENERAL?"

The man just stared with hooded eyes, and whether he was incapable of speech or simply stubborn was left unclear. Ciel growled and brought his sword down, stabbing the soldier in his abdomen again with a metalic squelch.

"WHERE IS SHE?"

Eyes were glazed, staring past him. Ciel felt a flame inside him pop and he huffed out a breath of air, staring the man in the face before running his blade through his chest. He was dead almost instantly, the brightness leaving his eyes.

Ciel's heart pounded – he was alive, his body seeming to make up for the dead people in his wake, but he'd disarmed that Protestant soldier with the same move he'd taught Michaelis' soldiers. The fire inside him was searing his insides and he felt sick.

He turned away from the body and hurled his sword against the wall with a growl, metal clanking against the stone just like the man's had before. He pulled his bow off his back and grabbed an arrow, stalking on down the tunnel toward the light and giving the body behind him not another glance. The bow would have to do for now.

The clamor of running boots tossed his head up just in time to see his next crowd of bodies. He raised his bow and released a breath, pulling back the wire and letting it go – it went through one man's chest and embedded itself into the shoulder of the man behind him. Ciel pulled another arrow from behind him and repeated – volley after volley, all eight men were down before they could touch him. Ciel lowered his bow and stepped over the bodies to continue down the tunnel.

He entered a quiet section with more light – perhaps the area the dead guards had just vacated to take care of him – and he took the time to breathe and look around. He was a wood torch suspended a bit further along the tunnel, along with a narrow passage branching off, purple-grey stone same as the rest. He walked silently forward and turned into the smaller tunnel, hugging close to the wall. He peered forward and saw – a door.

It sat blocking further entry, old and wooden and heavy, with metal supports and it looked more like a wall than something that could move. Ciel looked it over, wondering if she was somewhere behind it.

He stepped forward and nudged it with his hand – and was shocked to see it creak heavily open as any door would. His eye narrowed as he lifted his bow, and backed up a little before kicking it hard enough to slam it against the opposite wall, storming through it with a pumping heart.

His fervent blue eye looked around, and in the middle of the room stood without a doubt the most beautiful woman he'd ever laid eyes on. Dark tan skin, snow white hair, curvaceous body and an angelic aspect with deep, deep purple eyes defined by a thick fringe of black lashes. She stood there in rugged black leather and silk with this soft grace and he could almost taste her power. She didn't look at all startled at having her door ripped open, casually looking him over while he sat there dumbstruck.

She openned her full mouth to speak, stepping forward in her leather trousers (and he could not think of an instance where a woman had _ever _worn trousers in his presense) and her voice was deep and beautiful.

"And who might you be?"

Ciel mentally shook himself, schooling his expression and speaking in a low, dangerous voice.

"I am Earl Ciel Phantomhive, the Quen's Guard Dog. Her Majestly the Queen has sent me to eliminate you, heratic."

A pause, and then she chuckled, a deep, sultry thing, and her lips tipped into a small smile. "So committed. Even when you know the right path, I can hear it in your voice."

He started, then narrowed his eyes. "The right path is the path of England's sovreign."

Another chuckle, and he resisted the urge to shiver as she shifted in her black leather. "You know full well what I mean, Phantomhive."

"Actually I do not. But I didn't come here to talk politics with some heathen bitch."

She threw her head back and laughed, white hair tossing around her beautiful face. "Your stubbornness is laughable! Ciel Phantomhive, I knew your parents before they died, and I know full well where your loyalties lie."

His world froze. The torch in the corner, the stunning woman before him, the purple cave walls, all froze. His breath turned solid.

"Ah, didn't know of that, did you? Once you become tired of lying to yourself you may come to realize a fair few number of Protestants revere your ancestors as martyrs to our cause, child."

Something ignited in Ciel, bright enough to thaw his lungs and his voice was grave as he scowled. "I am not a child."

Beautiful violet eyes narrowed, and Ciel felt a chill of something like fear thrum down his spine. "A man would not hide from the truth as you do, Earl. You have much to learn."

He shook his head, feeling desperate for some reason and his heart pounded, the screaming launching echoes around his skull. "My ancestry matters not to me, all that matters is my Queen's orders."

She laughed, cruel and cold. "Your Queen? I know what she does to the children of nobles like your parents, Phantomhive. The Conversions? They ought not be what wins your loyalty."

His heart fluttered in his chest even faster. "My Conversion has nothing to do with you and your army's heresy."

She stepped forward with narrowed violet eyes, and Ciel swore he felt the atmospherer ripple with her movement. "This impending war? It is not a battle of traditions, Ciel. This is dogma against free thinking."

He closed his eyes and shook his head. "I came here to kill you."

When he looked at her she was smiling, this god-like, demonic thing. "And you are not going to, are you? I knew your parents, Rachel and Vincent Phantomhive. I know the people who gave you life – I know the most intimate part of you, the part you bury deepest. You cannot destroy me without destroying yourself."

He took a deep breath. "I have done away with countless Protestants before you."

"And yet you are sure not to sit and chat before offing them, off course. You make it less painful, mar yourself less by pretending they are not a part of you. Pretending you do not owe them something."

Something flared up in him, deeper and hotter than any flighty ire. "I owe _no one._"

She smirked. "And why do you say that, child?"

He glared, and felt himself unhinge like the huge wooden door at his back for the second time that day. "I am on my own, _entirely_ on my own. I belong to no one, I am indebted to no one, I care not who my parents were or who I _should _side with. I am alone, and I have only enemies. I seek to destroy those enemies before they destroy me, _that is all_."

She was quiet for a moment, an air of satisfaction surrounding her calm smile.

"Then your choice is clear, is it not?"

Ciel stared at this beautiful, otherworldly woman and felt something inside him loosen, and a distant corner of his mind knew things would never be the same again. He met her deep eyes and his voice was low and relaxed.

"Is your army in the cave?"

One corner of her lips lifted. "They are out raiding a nearby town. Aside from all my guards you murdered, you are alone."

He nodded, looking down and past the lavender stone floor. "I will inform the Queen of your army's position...along a river in the woods, east of London."

She smiled. "And?"

He looked up at her, voice blank. "And I slew you with my sword tonight, of course."

She nodded, a sultry expression in her eyes and he felt some kind of kinship with her. "I look forward to seeing you in the future, Earl Ciel Phantomhive."

He inclined his head, his eyes not leaving hers. "I as well, Miss...?"

"Hannah Annafellows."

He nodded, feeling cloudy and clear-headed at the same time. "Hannah Annafellows."

Without another word he turned and walked through the huge door and down the tunnel, his back to the small torch he'd gone all this way to find. His shadow stretched out on the ground before him, almost as lifelike as his real body, and he watched it darken the purple rock. He spotted his sword, lying on the ground next to the soldier's that he killed, and he walked past it with a pounding heart. Each bloodied body he came to sent a bolt of something painful through his chest, and he made sure to step over each one. He ran up and up and up through the cave, gasping air in and out of his lungs and feeling the lifeblood pump through his body and then he was at the mouth of the cave, the woodland stars brightening the land and everything was _so clear now _his head felt fit to burst like McCaffrey's had earlier that day.

His body thrummed with life and he felt lighter than he had in such a long time, floating.

He walked through the woods, eyes taking in the trees and the leaves and the grass at his feet, and his eyes slowly drifted up to the sky. He took in each star an stared at each tiny pinprick of light, feeling that perhaps they could all offer him something.

He made his way back to his carriage where his driver was sleeping, black silouhette hunched over on the front bench. Ciel smirked and reached up to nudge him.

"Oi!"

His driver shook awake with a small shout, straightening and looking down at him with wide eyes. "Ah – Young Master, I apologize –"

"It doesn't matter. Take me home."

* * *

><p><em>Leader: Hannah Annafellows, deceased<em>

_Troops: Roughly 50 in number, scattered or dead_

_Supplies: Limited, destroyed_

_Skilles: Close-range weapons, little experience_

_Location: Riverside base in a forest east of London_

_Notes: Reputation succeeded the woman's true form, no ample threat_

* * *

><p>More jobs slipped like sand through lazy fingers – of course he still killed most, but the technique was sloppy and noisy and few were his trademark tightly-executed massacres. The killings he performed in city houses were of course performed more-or-less perfectly; only Ciel himself noticed the faults. But on the edges of the city, and in the underground back allies and distant wheat fields, if a few Protestants excaped here and there, he never looked too carefully for them.<p>

* * *

><p><em>Earl Ciel Phantomhive,<em>

_You are invited to come round and visit the Trancy household for tea or general chit-chat, as the head of said household is a huge arse and wishes to apologize to his friend. Heard that last job went well, it's the talk of the city and perhaps the story can be enough of a reason to pop in when you have the time._

_Best,_

_The Queen's Spider, Earl Alois Trancy_

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><p>For the first time since before his return, he stepped into the familiar decadent little room – a little weary after his long day, but of course he still came to the palace the moment she asked. She was there of course, sitting in that high-backed chair as she did every time she summoned him here. This was the first time she'd summoned him since before he'd left, and she was just as he'd remembered. She was part of the décor, another color on the walls of this room that hadn't changed since his Conversion.<p>

Her thin lips smiled and her sharp eyes sparkled when she looked up from the book in her hands to his face – he felt that familiar chill tumble through him like water down his back, and he kept his visible eye clear of any emotion.

He felt none, after all.

Her eyes scrunched the tiniest bit in the corners, her attempt at a warm smile, and she looked down at the book in her lap. Her voice was light and beautiful and it felt like ice cutting his ears.

"I love this one...Aristotle. I've read his Ethics in several languages in the past...some nondescript author thought it wise to translate snippets and quotes into English though, isn't that lovely..."

Ciel blinked quickly as she suddenly moved, quickly flipping through pages and scanning her gaze over them, looking for something. After a moment she stopped, smiling widely, and looked up at Ciel with beautiful wide eyes.

"Mothers...'Sometimes a mother will give her own child to others to bring up, and though she loves him because she knows him, she does not seek to be loved in return, if it is impossible to have both.'" She blinked and looked at him, steel gray eyes piercing him though he was starting to think they saw nothing. "Isn't that lovely. When one loves another, one cares more about one's other than oneself..."

Ciel stood, feeling the air of the small, cold room press him in from all directions, and said nothing.

Her eyes seemed to focus, and pinned him sharply to the ground beneath his feet. "Ciel. You have given yourself to your country. During your long mission and time away, you suffered at the hands of the wicked, alone and without support, and yet you did not break. You are a lover of your nation. I applaud you."

Ciel blinked, and forced his stiff mouth to open, and low, calm sound came out. "Thank you, Your Majesty."

She shook her head, eyes twinkling. "Thank _you_, Ciel. You are an invaluable agent of my force. And the pain you endured for the sake of the information gained...I am most pleased by your fortitude."

She looked down for a moment, flipping more slowly and thoughtfully through the pages of her little book, before shooting a smile at him, voice loud and royal. "A feast in your honor. Tomorrow night. So all may know the deeds of The Queen's Watchdog."

He stood still and kept his eye blank, though he allowed it to widen. "I am honored, Your Majesty."

Her smile stilled, gazing over his shoulder and far past him. "It is well merited...and they all need to know what I am capable of. I am the Mother of England, and I will give them all what they need...mothers love their children. They love their children."

Ciel really didn't know what to do – the queen seemed not to be present. Or more realistically, the queen seemed to be forgetting he was present. Whatever the cause, he felt he should not be here, feeling more grounded and sane than he had in a while. He looked around, clearing his throat, and her eyes snapped onto his face.

"Will that be all, Your Majesty?"

She stared at him a moment, those strange gray eyes so wide...and then she nodded slowly.

"Yes, Ciel. That is all."

He nodded, bowed low, and turned on heel to leave the room. He reached to the crystal doorknob.

"Ciel."

He turned away from his escape to face her. "Yes, Your Majesty?"

She looked at him. "We are...not so different."

He ignored the roar that swallowed his head as her words crawled through his ears. "Yes, Your Majesty."

He turned the knob and left the room.

* * *

><p>"Tanaka, prepare my carrieage."<p>

"As you wish, sir."

Three days later, Ciel gazed at himself in the full-length mirror as the door at his back snapped softly shut. The sharp suit and top hat suited the occasion in his honor, he had no doubt. He looked down at his cuffs, reigning in the urge to fiddle with them and he frowned.

He wasn't sure when that childish habit had started. He had the sneaking suspicion that it probably began about the time his identity started slipping through his fingers like cold sand. He stared at his shoes and sighed.

Lying to himself about Michaelis and his army hadn't worked as well as he'd thought it might – he forced himself to admit that fully now. He was Protestant, in decent and in culture if not in faith, a fact he'd denied to himself since his Conversion. But if anything Alois had snarled at him was half-way true, it was that Ciel had to cease being defined by those three months in the dungeon, and become himself.

His fingers let his cuff and rested his arms resolutely at his sides. He was Ciel Phantomhive, son of Rachel and Vincent Phantomhive, Protestant nobles. The information washed against his skin, lapped at his insides like a gentle wind. He looked up into the mirror before him, taking in the blue-grey hair, the porcelin skin, the dark crystaline blue eye framed by thick black lashes, the eyepatch – his perusal halted as he stared at the feather-soft black cloth, imagining the eact shade of white that lay behind it. His features hardened.

His eye continued down, taking in the sharp suit, the short stature, the pale hands. _This_ was who he was, and he could work out the rest as he went along.

"Young master? Your carriage is ready for you."

His gaze did not leave his reflection, eye meeting deep sparkling blue eye. "Thank you, Tanaka. I will be leaving shortly."

He would leave shortly. And he had a fair clue how this feast in his _Catholic honor_ would pan out, and he couldn't find it in him to care all that much if it resulted in his death.

He saw the grey old man who'd been with him as long as he could remember, been with him before all this. He saw him put a hand on his chest, saw him bow to his reflection in Ciel's peripheral vision.

"Very well, young master."

Ciel took one last look in the mirror, watching his chest rise and fall as he took a breath. He turned without another glance, sauntering out the chestnut door Tanaka held open and prepared for the end of this world he'd come to not know as well as he'd first thought.

_Long live the Queen._

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><p><strong>Please take a moment to review, and favorite and all that. I love your support you guys, thank you so much for it so far and I hope you guys all had an awesome 4th of July (or ordinary Thursday, for those of you who reside outside of the states)! <strong>


	13. Releasing

**Hey all,**

**I'm not dead! I know you were thinking it. But I have finally graduated high school, and I'm making it my goal to finish this story before college starts!**

**I have something to ask of you guys, if you don't hate me. I have issues with motivation. It keeps me from doing what I love sometimes (which is writing, of course). And I'm not usually the type to beg...but if you guys could review the shit outta these chapters as they come, that will totally pump me up and keep them coming. I love hearing your thoughts, and it makes me so happy to be writing this story when I get encouragement from readers. You guys are the reason I didn't abandon this story. So if you've kept up with my fic so far and aren't the reviewing type, take a crack at it. If you're a super faithful reviewer (Avenging Neko, JezebelStrike, isthisparadise and all you other kitties, I'm talkin' to you), I love you so so much and please continue. If you guys encourage me to be a better updater, I promise not to disappoint.**

**I hate long author's notes, so imma stop now. This one's extra long for ya'll :) I love you, enjoy!**

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><p>Counting Dropping Heads<p>

Thirteen: Releasing

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><p>"For the first time the Doctor felt, now, that his suffering was strength and power. For the first time he felt that in that sharp fire, he had slowly forged the iron which could break the prison door...and deliver him."<p>

Charles Dickens

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><p>The building was rock, a rare marble of some kind, with turrets and towering pillars that were just the right shade of white to make the very walls glow with an ethereal beauty – the monstrous size and breathtaking architecture left everyone in London certain that the castle was a perfect human imitation of Heaven itself.<p>

The moment Ciel stepped down from his carriage and glared up at the looming palace, he scowled a little and felt his blue eye glisten with something dangerous.

He was going to get _hammered _tonight.

He stepped forward and his boots clipped stone that seemed somehow more precious than the cobblestone all around town, its tiny grains glittering. It was nothing more than that, a mere glitter, so Ciel wondered if she'd had the ground about her palace gilded – it wouldn't surprise him.

His gaze fell on the doors and remained silent, the cold air pressing in on his face and chest and making the lack of sound heavier. On the other side, he knew, might be the last hours of his life. He took a deep breath, both eyes hard.

He could hardly wait.

If he were the inward, contemplative type – which he was _not, _by God, and he never would've survived this long if he had been – Ciel would admit he was ready for that kind of peace. For all to go black and stop _goinggoinggoing, _for his job to end, for his purpose to be completed at last. He was meant to bring about the end of Mary's reign, he'd felt it in his core from the moment he'd first stepped into that decadent room and laid eyes on her.

And after she was gone, then what? What would there be for him to live for? He had nothing, and _was _nothing without revenge.

And Ciel was not the inward, contemplative type, _by God,_ so as his eyes trained on the door, heart thumping steadily, he felt no remorse over the nothingness his life had become. He felt only a purpose, one more job to do.

He lifted his tiny fist and knocked.

The door opened and light greeted his single good eye. The steward welcomed him with a downtrodden, complacent nod and a scurry to the side and Ciel stepped in without a word. He was inside and around him was the bright, glittering forier Her Majesty the Queen always used for royal festivities, decadent and sparkling and packed, and the noise only seemed to increase as the guests craned their heads to see the honored new arrival. It all splashed against Ciel, half-processed and half-important and his mind was blank as his heart _thumpthumpthumped._

He walked with dignity and grace toward the well-dressed and glowing guests, and he almost laughed at his desire to watch them all burn while they were standing in a place like this. His gaze was cool and arrogant though, and they parted before him as he walked forward, and they would never know until it hit them.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" An announcer's voice boomed and Ciel turned to see him standing at the side of a silent, smiling queen. She was dressed in a soft gray gown with her hair in a beautiful waterfall of curls. He met her cold eyes, hoping his gaze expressed some of the violence in store for her. Her beautiful face seemed to still a bit, but she did not blink, and sharp features steadied and was she _challenging him_?

"Ladies and gentlemen, our guest of honor!" The announcer, clad in sharp black and white, gestured with a flourish to the spot where Ciel stood, a small radius of open space surrounding him where the party guests had backed off with dignified grins. Ciel smirked, eying Claude Faustus to his right and always, always aware of the Queen, perched haughtily a meter above the rest.

"Ciel Phantomhive has undergone capture, enslavement and torture at the hands of our heathen enemy – the information gathered during his capture may very well be the tool that will lead to the ultimate downfall of our enemy, the Protestants, who are hated by God."

Ciel stood still in the cool room and watched the announcer. His hair and features were fair and did well to resemble the purity Mary strove for. Ash Landers, if he remembered correctly. It _had _been a while.

"Tonight, we celebrate Earl Phantomhive's bold patriotism, and his piety in the face of evil. He is a true Englishman, a role model for countrymen to look upon and emulate. May tonight be a celebration of Earl Phantomhive's success, and an occasion of honor and worship for our Lord and Savior, who is with us during these trying times of impurity."

And there it was. Ciel smirked – he'd been holding his breath, waiting for that word scorned by Landers above all others – _impurity – _to spit past his lips like a curse. He was famous throughout England for his urge to _clean, _to _snuff out the impure. _Ash Landers oversaw every Conversion.

The ringing in his ears was oddly quiet, muted by the determination in his gut just like his surroundings were. He didn't feel helpless tonight. He watched Landers with a hard eye and working ears.

"Let us pray!"

There was a drone of consent as every head lowered in the massive forier sparkling with chandeliers and jewels and gold and silver. Ciel inclined his head a second later, eye open and trained on the white Catholic official.

"Oh Lord above us – may tonight's feast be blessed by Thy shining hand – may we Thy servants feast in honor of Thee – and may Thy will be heard among us, Thy servants and celebrators. For this we pray. Amen."

The giant roaring chorus of _Amen _vibrated in Ciel's throat as the hall lifted every head from the ground again, and Ciel's lips curled into a subtle grin.

_May God's will be heard, indeed._

A few more words of godly praise and the party commenced into an unorganized (but dignified) hodge-podge of talk and food. Ciel turned straight to his left, weaving easily in and out of people, ignoring any polite greetings he heard for the time being, and made it to the liquor table. He filled a glass with the first stuff he laid eyes on, and downed the burning amber liquid in one go, barely containing a cringe. He felt the fire in his throat make its way down to his stomach and stay there, and his whole body relaxed.

He filled his glass to the brim again with scotch and stared at the wall, a soothing pale lavender color, as the drink poured like electric fire down his throat. He wondered briefly if, being the guest of honor, a great number of people at his back were watching and wondering why Ciel Phantomhive was so set on getting drunk before returning to his _own party – _but then he realized it didn't matter much, did it? They'd find out soon enough, and he had no reason to be embarrassed before these people any longer.

By his seventh full glass he began to feel it – the pleasantly numbed emotions, the uninhibited liberty, the relaxed tenseness in his muscles. He poured an eighth for good measure – _I'll come back for more – _and turned back to the crowd, most of whom were not looking at him at all, and those who were seemed only friendly. He walked steadily through the loud crowd, vision swimming this way and that, and he still had enough self-control and not yet enough alcohol in his blood to grin like a goofy fool when he saw Earl Alois Trancy weaving toward him with hair that glinted off the lights and the customary short shorts. They were face to face sooner than what made sense to Ciel but it didn't matter much when Alois opened his mouth and shouted above the crowd.

"Ciel, mate! How've you been?"

He scowled, eye narrowing despite himself. "Right fantastic, Trancy." He started to turn away –_ maybe he needed more scotch after all – _but a hand grabbed his arm and he shuddered and repressed the urge to knock his friend down.

"Wait, Ciel! I'm – I'm sorry, mate. About – about what I said. I was – I dunno why I said it, any of it. You know about – everything that happened before and – and what I said just doesn't make sense. And I know I shouldn't have said it, but – but I shouldn't have done it either and I dunno what I was thinking, I - "

"Alois." Ciel had to make him stop talking because it didn't really matter right now, did it? He knew how his friend could be, and he knew he didn't mean it, Alois just acted impulsively sometimes, without any semblance of rationality and they weren't so different, underneath all the specifics.

"But Ciel –"Alois continued with sad eyes, "Ciel, I never should've done that, I never – You would never do anything like that to me, and friends don't – _mmph –"_

Alois _finally _shut up about pointless things when Ciel covered his blonde friend's mouth with his own, and the fire in his chest erupted pleasantly. He heard Alois moan as their lips moved together and Ciel closed his eye so that the spinning world shut off for a moment, and he was somewhere separate and the same as all this and he nearly smiled at the sensation. He felt Alois' tongue pass through his own lips and he barely held back a gasp, and this was a _great _idea to make his friend shut the fuck up.

Ciel lost track of time long before the kiss broke and Alois stared at him with lusty, bewildered blue eyes. "Ciel – what the fu–"

"It doesn't matter what you said, or what you did." Ciel concentrated to keep from slurring, and he met Alois' eyes with too much bravery and he knew the scotch was doing its job well. "We're friends, and you're an arse, but I know who you are so I know you'd never actually mean something like that. Don't be an arse again."

His friend looked like a horny fish out of water. Blue eyes blinked and mouth closed, and Alois stuttered out "Ahh – okay. I'm sorry, Ciel."

Ciel shook his head and rejoiced at the spinning it caused, waving his hand. "Doesn't matter. Love you, mate."

Alois blinked for a third time, and Ciel turned just slow enough to catch his "I love you too" before the crowd was before him again and he looked for other ends to settle. The hot fire from Alois' kiss licked his insides like a caress and his eye crashed on Claude Faustus for the second time that night – gold eyes dark hair face where a smile just didn't fit – and his feet moved toward the man of their own accord, a smirk lighting his features.

Claude Faustus stood tall and rigid, with a stiff back and stiffer demeanor. He'd traveled to England from France on account of his homeland being not quite radical enough for him; this resulted in Claude Faustus becoming Ciel Phantomhive's very own Pain.

Ciel's hidden eye throbbed with a phantom agony just looking at the man.

He walked and weaved all the way until Ciel was facing the man twice his height, and the elder of the two beamed a constipated smile down at him.

"Ciel Phantomhive, the guest of honor. Congratulations for your success."

Ciel smiled, and felt some foreign drunken pride at the knowledge that _he_ actually looked _good_ when he did so. "Thank you, Faustus. It was a difficult ordeal, but it all turned out for the best."

"That it did. What plans have you for your involvement with the Protestants in the future?"

He smirked, and stared Claude in the eyes. "Oh, it's a surprise. On the other hand, how is your work treating you? It's been a while since I was in your dungeon, Claude."

Faustus' eyes widened the tiniest amount, and he sputtered out a response. "It – ah, it's going quite well. Anything for the love of the Lord."

Ciel let his eye narrow, feeling the fire in his chest turn to something much more violent and his body relished in the sickness of it, a warped grin lighting up his features. "Oh absolutely, out Lord and Savior must not do without his quota of beaten children now, can he?"

Faustus' eyes flashed in something like anger, but his mouth opened and closed like Alois' had moments – hours, minutes, days? – before. A silly thought occurred to him then, that perhaps sex physically transferred mannerisms and other traits from one partner to another, because after all how could Alois _not _have had sex with this man, with all the talking he'd been doing?

"Earl –"

"Oh calm yourself, Priest. After all, you blinded me at the age of ten. Did it ever occur to you that there were perhaps simpler methods of changing one's value systems than _this_?"

He reached back and untied the strings that held his eye patch in place, and it was funny to him how little difference there was in his vision between the drunken swirling, and the cataract added to his drunken swirling. He wasn't sure if he was going about all this too wisely, but he couldn't find it in him to care as he saw six duplications of Faustus' beet-red face.

"You brat, if you think you are in any sort of place to speak to me as if you are of higher status, I can assure I will eagerly blind you in both eyes!"

Ciel didn't miss a beat. "Unfortunately for you, Faustus, I am no longer the helpless little child I was when you worked with me. I think you'll find you won't face up well to an opponent who _fights back."_

He made sure to keep his voice lowered so as not to cause a scene – he wasn't done, after all – and he glared at Faustus with both eyes. Despite his attempts to hide it, Faustus looked unnerved.

"What is it Claude, bothered by what you see? You created me, why won't you embrace it now that you see? Why don't you look me in the eyes? _Fight me._"

Faustus shook his head with a heaving chest, taking a step back. "You are drunk."

His eyes narrowed. "And I am a child. I should be easy for you to beat, to death if you would like. Now that I'm out of the dungeon, you don't want it? I would have figured you gained some amount of sexual gratification from doing what you did to me and so many others, I can only imagine what they must have done to you as a child to have caused such –"

"ENOUGH!" Gold eyes flames as Claude's fist flew forward, and Ciel was drunk but that slowed him down considerably less than he would have figured given his inarticulate state of mind. He dodged the powerful, _blinding (he knew) _fist and caught it at the wrist, twisted in just the right way and stopped moving right before he knew he'd hear a vicious _snap. _He pulled Claude in close, their noses almost touching, and spoke in a whisper.

"I do not wish to make a scene, you animal. I could make your life hell – pathetic self-control you have. Perhaps this will give you reason to reconsider the methods you use to bend others' will."

Claude's eyes were frightened and trembling. "I – it is simply my job –"

Ciel smirked. "And moments ago it was 'anything for the Lord'. It is not easy being on the losing side, is it?"

Gold eyes widened, and Ciel released the man's wrist and watched as Claude massaged it with his opposite hand. He smiled and inclined his head. "It was a pleasure catching up, Father Faustus."

He turned away from the fish-out-of-water to see that no one was staring at him (again), and all the emotions that were inside him a moment before were gone like a snuffed flame and he was left with nothing but the fire in his stomach. The alcohol was taking full effect now – his vision was nearly incomprehensible and he was going to have to focus all his effort on being understood by the people he planned on talking to.

And speak of the devil – well, perhaps not quite the devil, but maybe a petty demon of sorts – he saw the fast-footed approach of dewy-eyed Viscount Drewett, barreling toward him as a speed that far surpassed that of his comprehension. The Viscount was before him, smiling with a flirtatiousness that nauseated him (or was that the scotch?).

"Earl Phantomhive! I saw your tender display of companionship toward the Earl Trancy and I must say, it excites and heats me to be even this close to you after watching! Congratulations on your success, and on your _success_." Drewett smiled sexily and Ciel blanched.

"Sorry to say...erm – to say that you are most certainly not...m'type."

The Viscount's eyes grew hungrier and he leaned in close, voice intimate and eager. "Is that so, my little robin? And what, might you say, _is your type?_"

Ciel's eyes (did he still have his eye patch undone?) were open, but he saw not a crowd of aristocrats before him. Instead he saw a lone towering figure in a shaded wood, and he answered coldly, without thinking.

"Tall, with black hair and red eyes."

The blonde man before him looked surprised. "Who – who do you know who has _red eyes_? That sounds vaguely – sinister, little robin."

Ciel smirked and didn't sway. "Very much so, Viscount. He's a rather... sinister person."

He brushed past Drewett without another word, despite the stare the blue eyed man directed at his back.

Ciel felt insane and free, felt like unleashing every form of banal passion he'd ever underwent and felt like dancing in flames. But first he'd have to set fire to something other than his insides.

It was then that he looked up and spotted him – the man haunting every hazy black nightmare, every whispery corner of his decrepit mind, disintegrated further with each drop of lava in his veins. The wounds in his head pulled his steps toward the man, aided by scotch's courage and he glided through the glitter and the people and found himself, dizzy _(God he was so dizzy_)_,_ before him.

"William Spears."

The man looked down, surprised, and met Ciel's eyes with a flick of his glasses (up-down) and spoke in a cool voice like sharp steel. "Ah, Earl Phantomhive."

Ciel's pounding heart was in his throat and he forced himself to blink and to come up with something to say. His voice was on fire and he didn't want it to crack or come out weak. But _what could he say? _This man took everything from him, took away his humanity and made him into something that wasn't even alive.

"Congratulations on this honor. You must be having a lovely time." Spears' voice held the tiniest hint of a smirk and Ciel felt mortified, even more tongue-tied and his thought were so blurry and hazed, what could he possibly say?

He loosened his throat and forced sound to come out – and was surprised when the words left him smoothly. "Thank you, William. I expect you are having…pleasant time as well?"

Spears lifted the corners of his lips into something resembling a smile and it was odd how inhuman each of the Priests were, as if what they did to others had turned them into animals. "Yes I am, thank you for asking. The food is delicious, and the cause of this feast is most holy."

Ciel nodded. "I haven't yet tasted it, myself. However it is the royal palace – anything but delicious and the cooks would be executed, wouldn't they?" He laughed at the absurd visual.

Spears blinked at the _not-joke _before laughing stiffly. "Yes, I suppose so."

Seeing the man uncomfortable loosened his tongue significantly, and his heart lowered and stopped choking him. He smirked, looking Spears in his sharp green eyes. "So how is your priestdom fairing? Anyone caught wind about Grell Sutcliff yet?"

The already pale man grew sheet white. "How do you know about that?"

Ciel smiled. "I worked with him. In the _Protestant _camp."

Thin brows froze in a crease. "What – Protestant –"

"Don't tell me you didn't know, William?"

"Grell Sutcliff is Protestant?"

Ciel smirked. "_Was. _I murdered him."

He looked hazily into the man's eyes and the conflict of emotions he saw there satisfied the fire in his stomach the way no kiss could – he was angry for the death of his lover, and – was that _shame? _Ciel barked a laugh, a huge smile breaking across his drunk features.

"Oh, come now. You can't honestly be ashamed of fucking a Protestant man simply because of his faith. You do that for a living!"

William's eyes flashed. "Are you –"

"Is it the deviant religion, the sacrilege that excites you? Or is it the rape, the thrill of overpowering a person so completely that they lose any sense of worth? Or perhaps it is a combination –"

"_What _are you _on abo –"_

"Oh you know exactly what I'm talking about, William. You use your priesthood to rape without consequence. In times before this one you would have been hunted down like an animal for such a crime. But you've found your perfect niche, haven't you Father?"

"Phantomhive, you are –"

"But don't get too comfortable, William. Just as the past did not accept animals, the future will not either. This is no new age, but an interlude."

William stared, aghast. "Ciel, you are very drunk."

He smiled. "And yet my words are coming rather easily, are they not?" He stepped closer until there were but inches between them. "And _you _will not address me by my first name, you have not the right. You've dirtied yourself with sin and are not worthy to touch the ground of any honest citizen."

Through his swimming vision William stood straighter, a light in his eyes that the scotch in Ciel's belly instantly reacted to. "Phantomhive, do not make me do something you will regret."

Ciel ignored the chill that climbed down his spine and maintained eye contact, aware for the first time in ages that he'd never replaced his eye patch and it seemed fitting, that at this party they were seeing all of him. The fire in his stomach grew and licked at every part of his body now and he wanted to kill him.

"There is nothing you could do that would render me in a situation of remorse, sinner. You are more stained that any heathen scum."

William's lip curled and he knew it was coming before it came – but this was Submission, not Pain, so his fists were neither fast nor powerful and Ciel backed up as he dodged to give himself room and to create a spectacle. William stumbled forward and Ciel huffed out an enraged laugh.

"Pathetic, the way you're powerless unless you're top of someone. Worthless piece of shit."

He wanted to slice him up, cover the walls with his blood like he had so many innocent people. William growled deep in his throat and Ciel watched his actions closely, dodging a punch with ease and watching the crowd. He could feel more eyes with every tiny moment and could not find it in him to care. He hoped the Queen was watching – maybe she'd _join in _and that he'd get to kill her tonight, too.

He charged in close and sent three jabs in quick succession to the man's stomach and he didn't even _block, _and Ciel knew his hits were not as powerful as any grown man's but William still sucked in a breath and Ciel had been correct in his estimate – William was a rapist, and knew not what it was like to have an actual fighting opponent.

There was much noise from the crowd now but he blocked it easily out as he did every consequence of his actions, ducking beneath William's every attempt and landing light hits here and there for no other purpose than to let off a little steam. William reached with a roar, intending to – grab his hair? Whatever the purpose, Ciel caught his wrist as he had Claude's earlier that night and twisted as hard as he could. The intense bolt of pleasure he felt from hearing the snap and the choked scream riveted and terrified him, and the crowd grew to a level he could almost not ignore.

William had dropped to his knees cradling his wrist, and Ciel looked down at him. The alcohol had left a scarringly foul taste in his mouth and he spat in the man's face, chest heaving and pulse pounding and he felt intoxicated in a very _clear _sense.

"When you fight a person as an equal you do not stand a chance! C_oward! YOU ARE ALL COWARDS!"_

He turned to eye the crowd for the first time since the fight had begun, both eyes glaring and he could barely _breathe _he was so angry.

"YOU STAND SO TALL, WHAT WILL YOU DO WHEN A FORCE OPPOSES YOU? POWER HAS MADE YOU WEAK, WORTHLESS!"

The fire had licked all the way up to his spinning vision now and he saw only red – the crowd was silent but he couldn't see them so maybe they'd just left, and then there was hand on his shoulder whose owner he'd never be able to name in these conditions and he heard _Ciel, mate, calm down _and –

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><p>And whatever had happened next, he woke up the next morning in the same purple guest bed he'd slept in during his Big Return, with a huge headache and a sour, sticky mouth and a stomach hot with nausea.<p>

"_Erg…_" He rolled over and his organs rolled with him, ready to dispel all the shit sloshing around inside. He opened his eyes and that was all it took. _"Fuck!"_

After a good five minutes of puking and sequential dry-heaving as his nausea refused to go fuck off, he collapsed on his stomach in the sheets, staring down at the revolting puddle on the cherry wood floor. Someone ought to clean that up. He closed his eyes for a while, barely holding in a pathetic moan.

The door creaked open and he instantly beat down the tiny urge to cry in frustration, keeping his eyes closed and his body still.

"Ciel?"

_Oh God. _The vomit almost rose again at the sound of Alois' voice, and the broken images of last night rushed back in a violent wave. Why was he alive? Was Alois housing him until he was restored to health, so torture and death would be more pleasurable for them? He didn't want to open his eyes.

"Ciel. Mate, come on."

"Mmm."

The bed shifted under him as a new body occupied it. His heart was pounding, his throat burned, his head was ready to explode – perhaps he was already dead. Maybe he was in hell.

"_Ciel –"_

"_AH!" _He shot up and nearly puked again, twisting around to pin a blurry glare at his (former?) friend. "Do _not _talk so loudly, Alois!"

He saw the amused, empathetic turn of the blonde's lips and was doubly confused as to why he was alive. Hadn't he picked a fight with _Spears? _

"Hangovers are a bitch, yeah? Sorry 'bout that mate, didn't reckon you'd planned on getting toasted at your own celebration."

Ciel forced a smirk to twist his face, heart threatening to choke him. "What happened last night?"

Alois avoided his gaze, looking nervous for the first time since entering the room. "Ah – what do you remember?"

He swallowed thickly, partly from fear and partly from cotton mouth. "I – drank enough to probably kill a small horse…did I get into a fight?"

Alois chuckled, and Ciel would've let out a giant relieved sigh if he had been alone. "Yeah, you gave William Spears a bloody nose and a couple bruises. I think your deeply-buried resentments come out some when you're drinking, it was a spectacle."

He still looked nervous. "Did I say anything?"

Alois avoided his gaze. "Said he was pathetic, told some people they'd grown weak. Could have gotten bad if it had been anyone but you, honestly. Her majesty looked a spot disappointed, but everyone else took it in stride. Spears was pissed, though." He chuckled, looking down at the puddle of vomit by the bed and his brows furrowed. "Oi, the fuck do I keep servants around if they don't do their fuckin' job! Get in here and clean this shit up!"

Ciel stared at the purple wall, dazed with relief, and briefly wondered if Alois' peasant parents had had certain religious sentiments. The way he cursed reminded him of Bard sometimes. Frantic bumps and clangs rushed into the room as three men in suits mopped and scrubbed. They were gone in seconds, leaving behind a shining wood floor and he wondered how Alois had managed to streamline his servants' work like that.

So the queen was offended. She would find a way to corner him, but no one else suspected him. He had to corner her first, somehow. Move through the populace like a specter, maybe even use their support, get them to help. He would murder her, feel the pulsing blood rush over his hands and wrists even if it killed him in the end. He hoped it would kill him, in the end.

"The partygoers seem rather well-acquainted with drunken arses, if they tolerated my behavior."

Alois laughed nervously, still avoiding his eyes. "Well they know you well, so they recognized that you were completely gone. I think all is forgiven."

His eyes narrowed, and he couldn't take it anymore. "Why are you acting so strange?"

Alois took a deep breath, bright blue eyes boring into the duvet covering Ciel's body. "You don't – remember anything else? Nothing – involving me?"

Ciel stared at him, then scoffed loudly despite his head when realization dawned. "You mean the snogging?"

Alois blinked at him a bit mournfully. "Yes. I – well I don't – what I mean to say, Ciel, is – ah. Are – are you attracted to me?"

It was Ciel's turn to blink, owlishly. "That's what this is all about?"

Alois looked down. "Just answer the question, Ciel."

"…Alois. You're my best mate. I spend more time with you than I do with anyone else. I snogged you, at a party, when I was totally shitfaced. So, no, while you are _attractive, _I am not _attracted _to you."

Alois panted out a huge sigh. "Oh thank _God!_"

Ciel chuckled, smirking a little. "What, you didn't enjoy my kissing, Trancy? I'll try not to repulse you so much next time."

Alois barked out a laugh that nearly cracked Ciel's skull open and he groaned. "_No, _that's not – hah, actually you're a phenomenal kisser, but you're my best mate and I was scared that –"

"–that what, you'd be left with an awkward friendship? We never have been the usual sort, you know."

Alois looked down, and was that a _blush_? "Actually I was scared that – me and William…damaged you even more than I'd already presumed."

Ciel was proud off the way his eyes did not soften from their cold, mocking sparkle. "Nah, mate. Just the normal post-rape trauma shit there, no love triangles involved."

Alois looked up at him after a pause, eyes deeper than their usual flat, insane, beautiful blue. "You use more peasant slang since you returned from captivity. Talk more like me now."

Ciel suddenly felt like he was being scrutinized, pinned by Alois' knowing look. He slowly unhinged his jaw. "Guess that's all I was exposed to. Probably be an easy habit to kick."

Alois' eyes narrowed, so slight a change it was nearly imperceptible. "Pick up any other habits there?"

Ciel froze, heart thundering and eyes blinking uselessly. He felt like he would shatter into gravel if Alois were to reach out and give him a sharp nudge. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it, then opened it again.

"What are you playing at, Alois?"

The blonde looked at him, eyes hard. "You're – different since you came back, mate. Passionate about odd things. Jumpier. You keep denying that anything traumatic happened in that forest, but you act more changed than I've ever seen you. _Something _happened in the woods with those heathens, Ciel. Something you're not telling me."

Ciel felt cornered. He scoffed a little as he stood from the bed, forcing himself to look bored as the nausea nearly overtook him. "I'm not sure what you're on about, mate. I was held captive for a while. It's taking time to readjust. That's all."

Alois frowned. "Why won't you tell me what happened, Ciel?"

Ciel growled, frustration flaming up in his stomach. "For the same reason I do not share every personal fact of my life with you. You know little of my past, and I feel no obligation to divulge to you the details of my captivity."

Alois pressed on. "Why did you not escape? You could have gathered the information you did in a week. You could have escaped with ease. Why did you stay for so long?"

His heart hammered, but he refused to yield. "Are you _suggesting –_"

"–I'm not suggesting anything, Ciel, simply making inquiry. The things you said last night while drunk, the viciousness you responded with when I told you of my affair with William – I'm beginning to suspect that you may sympathize with the Protestant cause."

He did not move. Just stared, world crystalizing around him, turning flat and soundless. He spoke to the paper doll image of the thing that used to be his best friend.

"What would you do, Alois? If you were right."

Alois' eyes dilated, shock paling his cheeks and he looked down at the wood floor with a sharp intake of breath. "You – you confirm it, then. Everything you said last night, about lacking righteousness, and being scum – that was meant for us all?"

Ciel stared at him, hard. He could laugh, wave his hand warmly and tell Alois that of _course _he was joking. But lying a day more would tear his mind apart. All he had now was his strength. It was all he had ever had.

(And what if it failed to be enough? What if he never got his chance to kill –)

"For the church, for the English royalty, for the corrupt system this country has fallen victim to. Don't you see, Alois? We have all been tricked into believing this is what holy looks like. An institution that sanctifies murder, rape, and torture – take a step back and _look _at what we're doing. This is not what God wants. The thing God wants is hiding in a forest along the English countryside, readying for war against the Queen. No, don't look at me like that Alois, you know how damaged you were after Lord Trancy's treatment! You hide from what haunts you by painting over old walls, fucking everything that moves. But the Church, the royal family approved of Trancy's actions. You cannot tell me that anything so evil could be _loved _by God? _We must think for ourselves, find God for ourselves because these sinners do not know God!"_

He was pacing, determined, and his friend was staring at him with a wide, blank expression. He was _right, _and he loved Alois, he would die for him, cared more about him than he did about himself. The light in the room was warm now and seemed to almost caress his eyes despite the hangover, the lavender walls encouraging him to continue. Maybe he could still get to the queen, if he could just show Alois the truth.

"We could work together, you and me. We've always been together, separate from everyone else because we were younger and yet had suffered so much more than them. It has always been you and me, Alois. The Queen's Guard Dog and her Spider. Join me, help me take revenge. Don't leave me now."

Tears ran down Alois' flushed cheeks. His eyes – iridescent blue, filled with insane pain and love and life – locked onto Ciel's like they were searching for something to hold on to. "Ciel…"

He smiled, the smallest turn of the lips. "Please, Alois. You are the closest thing I have to a family. We both had our loved ones stolen from us. Help me honor their memory, Alois."

His friend's cheeks glittered, tears reflecting off the warm light of the room. He had no headache, no nausea, nothing mattered to Ciel but this moment. A chance to share his life with someone else; he never would have considered it before, would have laughed at the idea, but he had been going insane for a while now, walking through a shattered version of reality like the kaleidoscope images he saw when Sebastian had first uncovered his damaged eye. Ciel was cold, logical, hopeless – but in order to achieve his goal, perhaps it was time for something different.

"Ciel…I love you mate. My life would…be destitute without you." And he smiled, face cracked and tear-stained.

Ciel smiled back, same vicious grand intent beneath the surface, but at least now he had a partner in crime. The world, once so small and choking, widened and maybe there was a purpose for Ciel's life now beyond the job that had to be done.

"Thank you, mate. I love you too."

Alois gave a nod, meeting his gaze with wet, broken blue eyes. Ciel watched as he sniffed a bit, running a hand under his nose and wiping his eyes. "We should, ah – get you some tea, and breakfast, for that hangover."

Ciel took a deep breath, brain scattered. "I – I don't think I need anything now."

Alois waved a hand with another sniff, walking past him and stepping into the hall. "No no, I insist. OI, prepare some breakfast, it was a long night! Easy on the stomach, nothing too rich!"

Ciel followed him slowly out of the room. "Alois I'm fine, really. We ought to finish discuss –"

"–none of that now, mate, please. Just let me…make you breakfast, take some time to just eat, you know?" He half-turned in Ciel's direction, a vague acknowledgement, and Ciel swallowed.

It was a lot to take in, he had to admit that. He nodded. "''Course."

Alois led him down the stairs, into one of the great dining halls where a table was set already with decadent china and a single ornate chair. Ciel headed for it as Alois turned to some nearby servant. "You, lemme see what you're brewing in there. My friend's got a helluva hangover and I'll gouge your eyes out if you make him vomit, go!"

And Ciel was alone. He looked around, eyes the broadly striped burgundy walls and he wondered if Alois would keep redecorating now that he would be joining Ciel with the Protestant revolt. Surely that would occupy Alois' inner demons more successfully than updating color schemes.

He and Alois, side by side against the Queen – he took a deep breath and let nothing but a smirk break through to his lips. The golden cutlery and china faded in front of him and he saw a different picture, of Alois holding her by the wrists, looking up at him with an ecstatic, hungry grin, just as Ciel stepped forward and plunged a blade into her chest. They would be covered in blood. His lips curled up more. He was so happy he had his best friend here to help him finish this.

What if, he mused, during the revolt and entrance into the palace, they crossed paths with Michaelis' army? Would they partner up, lay siege to the castle together? Would they let Ciel explain himself, explain that Grell was the traitor, not him, and that he remained loyal to the cause and had even managed to recruit another English noble to their side? Alois would probably flirt with Sebastian. The thought promptly removed the smile from his face.

No, of course that would not happen. Sebastian and all the rest of them hated Ciel, and the chances of them ever rallying together was slim to none. He shook his head and looked down at his empty plate, stomach rolling a bit.

He would make a list of potential allies later, after he got some food in his body. There was that woman Hannah, in the forest…there was always his near-weekly letter of hits from the Queen. He was sure it would be easy to find recruits, Sebastian – Sebastian always said the Protestants out-numbered the Catholics in England anyway.

His stomach growled painfully, and he looked up. Where the hell was Alois? "Oi!" The burgundy walls echoed the sound, and Ciel furrowed his brows. Where did everyone go?

A crash to his right had him bolting from his chair. He twisted and met eyes with a half dozen tall men in uniforms standing at the door. His breath caught, and Alois stepped past them. His sky blue eyes met his, and the agony was there.

"Alois."

The eyes flicked away and stared a hole into the thick carpet. As if they'd never locked eyes to begin with. Ciel's heart pounded.

"Alois. Alois, what is this."

A man stepped forward, stood at Alois's left and his blonde friend kept his eyes down. "Earl Ciel Phantomhive. You are under arrest by the Royal Constabulary Force for treason. Our nation's sovereign ruler, her majesty Queen Mary Tudor I, has announced your official arrest and has appointed for a trial to be arranged."

Ciel closed his mouth only after he realized it was hanging open. "Alois…I thought…"

He saw his friend steel himself, and then Alois looked up. Ciel dug desperately into his regretful eyes, begging _please, please don't let them do this to me why would you do this to me._ If Alois suddenly came to his senses and fought these men alongside him, he could still make it out of here. But Alois did not move from his spot next to the officer.

"Ciel….I love you Ciel, I really do. It's just – just I love myself more. I can't let you drag me into this. My choice was made the moment you revealed yourself to me."

The world felt too quiet. He had to scream, to make noise, to break bones and make the silence go away. He was almost shocked to see his vision distorted with tears.

"You betrayed me. Alois."

The officers stepped forward, and Ciel took two quick steps back. "_You betrayed me! I will kill you for this!_"

He blinked and his cheeks felt wet, and they grabbed at his arms so he viciously shook them off. He was _not _going, not like this. His vision cleared for a moment and Alois's eyes were glittering with tears.

"What the _fuck _were you _thinking, _YOU JUST KILLED BOTH OF US!"

An officer grabbed at him again, and Ciel turned and sent a palm smashing into his nose. He fell back with a groan, and the other men approached him in earnest. He twisted the next officer's wrist with a roar, he punched and kicked and clawed and existed for making noise and drawing blood. He looked around him and all six men were injured in some way or another. His eyes narrowed, and he realized for the first time that his eye patch was off and he was wearing the same clothes from last night.

He could win this. He could bust his way out of here, get to his manor. Pack up and leave, Tanaka would hold up some excuse for his absence. He punched an officer in the eye and the man wobbled dangerously. Ciel shot back, keeping distance between him and his pursuers and lashing out with powerful strikes when they got too close.

No, he could win this. He could get out of here, fight his way tooth and nail from this grand fucking house, make his way home and leave. Team up with Hannah Annafellows, find her and leave Tanaka in charge –

Then huge, bearlike arms snaked around his chest from behind and lifted him off his feet. He thrashed and kicked and snarled, mind clearing of every thought except _escape escape escape –_

Then something exploded on the left side of his head, and darkness swallowed up all his panic.

* * *

><p><em>Rap-tap-tap-tap.<em>

No, dear God let him sleep. Turn that noise off.

_Rap-tap-tap-tap._

His head pulsed with every beat of that sound. Where was he?

_Rap-tap-tap-tap._

"Mmm…" His own voice hit his head with a force that nearly sent him under again. "What…"

"Shhhh…hush darling."

He scrunched his eyes together, not daring to open them, but doing his best to listen, to identify that voice.

"Fuck…"

"Oh hush you, that's a naughty word. Did your mother never talk to you about naughty words?"

His eyes snapped open, and a bright, perfumed room assaulted his vision. His heart set off at a race because _she _actually _dared _to mention _his mother?_ He was sprawled out on the lilac carpet, and he shifted into a sitting position, impatiently dismissing the pain it caused. The Queen was staring down her nose at him, sitting erect and immaculate in her straight-backed golden chair while she tapped her fingernails against it. Her grey eyes seared into him, and the sight of her beautiful face set his blood on fire.

"You are like my brother, you know. You always reminded me of him." Her lips quirked up. "He ruled before me, though he was younger, because he was male. Nine years old and ruling a nation."

Her eyes looked absent and empty, like two grey pearls facing something that did not exist anymore.

"When he was born, all of England rejoiced. At last, a male heir had arrived from the revered King Henry! That's what drove him mad, you know. With each wife who failed to give him a son, his mind slipped. Pressure from all sides, wars in Scotland, and here my father could only produce daughters. He loved Edward from the moment he was born. He gave him the brightest tutors from the age of six, coddled him and smiled upon him.

"He was such a bright child. Devout. When father died a council assisted Edward in his youth, helping him to make wise choices. But they corrupted him, and defiled his brain." He voice turned bitter and spitting, and still she stared at something Ciel could not see.

If Ciel was quick enough, could he lunge at her? His fingers could wrap around her windpipe, and he would _squeezesqueezesqueeze_ -

"He became adamant that England must reform, to Protestantism. His council whispered lies in his ears, until all he could think about was turning England into a Protestant nation, like a heathen."

He braced his hands on the carpet and pushed, forcing himself up – and nearly gasped in pain as he collapsed back down. Everything hurt, and his vision rippled. He shut his eyes tight.

"He changed the standard prayers in churches, omitted Catholic references in royal ceremonies that have been a part of our culture for _centuries, _Ciel, can you imagine? He became critical of me, told me my Catholic ways were unsuitable for an 'English princess.' And still all of England rejoiced. As hell descended on our nation, its people rejoiced."

She turned and looked Ciel in the eye for the first time, and his blood ran cold. "I did what I had to, to save my country. I poisoned his breakfast. He grew ill. It took _months _for him to finally die. The devil obviously sustained him. He attempted to keep succession from me in his will, but I gained control of England within six days. I reversed all the terrible changes he had wrought on my country, and no one disputed me."

Her eyes grew moist, and she looked at him with searing emotion. "You remind me of my brother, Ciel, You have reminded me of Edward from the day I laid eyes on you. I know that your parents corrupted your knowledge of the truth. But after your conversion, I saw that you could be changed. You were my brother's age. I still had a chance to save your soul, though I had not managed to save my brother's. God sent me to you, to redeem my soul!"

She broke off in a sob, staring at him through moist grey eyes. The Queen's Guard Dog, redeemer of the Queen's soul. A part of him had wondered about his position, long before. But this was a new age, and he cared not for such trivialities. His eyes grew hard, watching tears fall down her porcelain cheeks.

"I am Protestant. Because my parents raised me as a Protestant, because I have grown to accept Protestantism as the truth, and because you, as a Catholic, broke my spirits and showed me what the devil looks like as he walks on earth."

Her head snapped up at his last words, and she released a great snarl. "You Protestants are like a plague – once they contaminate the body there's no salvation! Ciel Phantomhive, you are hereby sentenced to imprisonment in the Tower of London, indefinitely, without trial! _Get him out of my sight!_"

Large, calloused hands grabbed him and lifted his pliant body up. He barely had time to gasp at the pain before everything went black.

* * *

><p>His eyes snapped open, and he saw a dirty candlelit stone ceiling. He did not recognize it, and it immediately set off his other senses. He forced himself up with a gasp of pain, feeling unconsciousness sneak into the corners of his mind. He looked around.<p>

There was a large wood door in the corner of the room, next to it a candle seated on a small table. Chains hooked to the wall in another corner. Nothing in the third corner, and himself in the fourth. The whole room was made of cold, cracked stone. Ciel shivered, and lifted himself further upright with a wince.

"Hell–" The mangled croak that escaped his throat was barely human. "Hello?"

As if on cue, the door groaned slowly open like it weighed a ton, and light exploded from the crack of the door. Ciel squinted to see the silhouette of a man before the door was shut, and the ever-immaculate image of Ash Landers stood before him. His stomach dropped.

"Ceil Phantomhive." He smiled, and it looked more like bearing teeth. "So sorry that your conversion was unsuccessful in cleansing your soul. It appears that you are beyond hope of change, and ought to be kept in isolation for the good of the public. I may… be the last face you will ever see."

The grin turned more genuine then, filled with honest joy.

"Burn in hell, Landers. With all the rest of them."

His voice cracked and he could not stand on his feet while he said it, but he realized it was over and he would not go down silently. He glared hotly at him, every ounce of hatred and vengeance pouring into his gaze. Landers sneered.

"Like I burned your heathen mother and father?"

Whatever Ciel had intended to say next died on his lips. His world cracked, and the roaring in his ear nearly deafened him.

"There is a ceremony, one that requires a man and a woman bound in holy matrimony. They must also be heathens. Her Majesty had suspected their disloyalty for some time…"

Landers was physically excited, his smile growing wider. Ciel could only stare as he continued.

"I am a pure being. The witchcraft and sorcery of the witches is utilized incorrectly, abused. As I have informed Her Majesty many a time. The ceremonies I perform ensure cleansing, purity, and holiness. I have spoken to the Holy Spirit!" His eyes were wild.

"The heathens were bound in the drawing room, and I proceeded to remove the skin of their faces, the right sides of both. Your mother went first, and she screamed as I did it. Her husband was so desperate to break free of his bonds and help her. After I sowed them together, both left sides with mother and both right sides with father, I plunged a dagger into both their chests and they bled out into a carved bowl. I said a prayer, encouraging our Holy Father to give good fortune to those devout in His eyes."

He smiled, eyes lit with something terrifying. Snarling, Ciel started to move. "The Lord has answered my prayer, Ciel. The ceremony has held true. Catholicism reigns over England, unchallenged. Your parents' sacrifice has not been made in vain, child. You can lie in the dark with that one small comfort." The corners of his lips twitched upwards until the grin he wore looked like it would split.

Ciel fought desperately to rise, begging his battered legs to work and he felt tears on his face. This man murdered his parents, _tortured his family, _he had to stop him, had to _kill –_

"I will kill you with my bare hands for what you have done."

It was a strangled snarl spit into the dim light at that man, and he knew it would never be enough. So he stilled. Ash Landers deserved something worse than death, something that would viciously and agonizingly suck every ounce of putrid life from his veins. He deserved to be tortured, to be beaten and carved up, to watch his loved ones get slaughtered in front of him. He deserved to beg for death.

But Ciel had undergone all these, and had survived. Ash Landers deserved something that would never be accomplished in this life.

Landers grinned. "No you will not. Because you have been sentenced by Her Majesty to spend the rest of your life in this room."

He took two steps forward, reached around the gigantic door and snatched the candle on the table, the light and shadows shifting their dance against the walls at the movement. Lander's smile was biting.

"Goodbye, Ciel Phantomhive."

He turned.

"No, no, _NO –_"

The door shut, and everything was dark.

"NO, NO, NONONONONONO –"

Ciel thrashed and pounded at the ground, cold and unforgiving until he felt his knuckles bleed and the stone was wet. He couldn't think, couldn't stay calm, not when he was stuck here in a cold black box and he couldn't even _see –_

Ciel could feel the tears on his face now and he roared as he tried to erase the image of his mother's broken, stitched face. He had always assumed it was just a sick nightmare, his mind twisting memories into some hellish metaphor, he had never thought that it was actually _real –_

He had to get out of here. He had to think clearly.

He pulled in deep, fast breaths and tried to slow them down. Practicality battled the images of his parents that didn't subside because black met his vision whether his eyes were open or closed. He opted for clenching them shut, and muscled his breathing into a slower pace.

He braced his palms on either side of him, and focused on where the pain came from as he attempted to stand. Ribs. Left shoulder. Both ankles, right knee. His head felt like someone had taken a hammer to the back of it.

He began probing his injuries. Blood in a few places, superficial. Nothing that would get in his way. Massive swelling in his knee, which definitely _would. _He sighed, feeling slightly calmer. He would have to wait until the swelling reduced before he could find a way to escape.

He stretched back out against the freezing stone floor, finally embracing the tidal wave of pain he'd ignored for so long. He kept his eyes screwed shut, refusing to open them just to see blackness.

* * *

><p>It came from the anger.<p>

His beloved stuffed rabbit - the same one he'd had _since he was born_, for God's sake - torn apart in the jaws of that mangy black puppy...

He'd seen stuffing, and then he'd seen red.

His parents had had the best intentions, he was sure - they'd sat him down and spoken in soft refined tones, saying "Ciel, you have become too accustomed to solitude. It's not good for a boy to be without a companion, that's why we got you something."

So the fluffy black ball of paws and ears had joined the family, and Ciel had been thrilled. But that was, of course, before that stupid mutt had done the unthinkable, the unforgivable.

"SEBASTIAN!" He bolted to the black puppy chewing up his lifelong best friend with a pounding heart, so loud he could hear it in his ears. "SEBASTIAN YOU TORE UP FLAPPER!"

He reached down to snatch up his friend, and there was nothing left but a mess of stuffing and soggy fur. Tears sprung to his eyes and white-hot passion poured into his chest and he'd never been so angry in all his seven years of life.

"YOU - YOU FUCKING - _WANKER_!"

He felt like he'd crossed some invisible red fence with those dirty words, and on the other side there was relief and release. He panted and felt calmer for a moment, before his young blue gaze trained back on the scared-looking black mass of fur at his feet. A flame sparked in his gut and he felt the undeniable urge to kick him and call him more names.

"YOU -"

"_CIEL_!"

He spun around with a gasp, heart pounding for an entirely different reason as he saw his mother, practically glowing with anger and she looked like some demonic angel, beautiful but terrifying with her dark red gown and shiny blonde hair, perfect features and smoldering blue flames in each long-lashed eye. His mouth went dry because _this_ would always be his biggest fear. His mother was so scary when she was angry.

She spoke with dignified knives in her voice, eyes blazing. "Ciel, _don't you ever _use words like that!"

Ciel loosened his frozen tongue. "But - but Sebastian, he chewed up my -"

"I know exactly what he did, Ciel. But nothing gives you the excuse to speak like a peasant, you are above that! No fit of anger should _ever_ make those words fall from your lips, they are filthy!"

Ciel blinked, his knees stiff from fear. "Y-yes ma'am."

She was so close to him he could smell her, the scent of water lilies and gingerbread drifting slowly through the air like a poison, or a provocative idea. The wall at her back was a gentle gold, and looking more in tune with her surroundings than the Bible in church, he knew there would never be a woman who could scare him like his mother could. She opened her pink-lipped mouth and spoke, quieter this time.

"Your rabbit can be fixed, Ciel. But do not corrupt your soul with such peasant speak, such a degradation lingers in the heart."

He ignored his frozen breath for a moment to ask timidly, "What's a degradation?"

She straightened, looking down at him with something closer to exasperation now.

"Degradation is when you rot away, when you become less than what you were before."

"Like - like Flapper? He was just degraded."

She blinked, and he saw the corner of her mouth lift for the tiniest moment. "Yes, like Flapper. The dog degraded him when he chewed him up, made him - less than what he's supposed to be, a toy to play with rather than your friend."

He scrunched his brows, and he knew he was in the middle of being scolded but he couldn't help himself. "I don't like Sebastian. I liked Flapper better, but he killed him. I know Flapper's not alive, I know I sort of made him up but mother, I really _do_ like him better than the dog." His vision blurred as tears threatened to come and his eyes drifted down to the ground where gory white stuffing and slobber littered the carpet.

She sighed, a pretty rush of air from her chest, and she lowered herself down till they were face-to-face, eyes-to-eyes, blue on blue. Her expression had softened, and Ciel felt the knot of wrongdoing loosen from deep in his stomach.

"Ciel, although we all may wish and imagine what a perfect friend would be like, nothing is so satisfying as a real one, son. You will like Sebastian, even though he's - degraded the friend you've made up. Flapper can be sewed back together, and he'll be good as new. But just like you can't swear because it will degrade your soul, you also can't because it degrades the dog."

There was some expression, wasn't there? He'd learned it with his history teacher...an eye for an eye? Sebastian had degraded Flapper, so didn't that make it right to do the same thing right back to Sebastian? Why did that hurt his own soul, if it was right?

But he didn't say any of this to his mother, because he most certainly did not wish to make her angry again.

"Will Flapper be fixed?"

She smiled a small smile that let him know he was forgiven. "Yes, Ciel, he will be fixed." Her face hardened. "But if you swear again, I will take him away and never give him back."

He felt the childish pang of fear-of-his-mother pierce his heart, and he nodded jerkily. She straightened, and waved a dainty hand.

"Now go on and play with Sebastian, the poor creature looks petrified.

He looked back at the pitiful little black puppy. There wasn't much anger left - after all, Flapper would be repaired so in the end no damage was done. He sighed and bent down the pick up the shaking little animal, Sebastian's soft night-colored fur tickling his chin as he held him to his chest.

"Let me take you to my room, Sebastian - it really bright and colorful, I think you'll like it in there."

* * *

><p>Superficially, Ciel was annoyed.<p>

All he needed was the goddamned swelling of his knee to let up. It was getting in his way, and he hated being hindered by such a small obstacle.

So here he was, teeth clenching down on tender lips to hold tears in and squinting into the dark in a desperate attempt to see _something, _and his knee would still not support his fucking weight.

Perhaps an hour ago he had white-knuckled it and stood, just to see how much willpower it would cost him to walk to the wooden door. He'd wrestled his own body upright, and had leaned on his right knee before crumpling to the ground so fast it took him a moment to realize what had just happened. He couldn't even take a couple steps, couldn't even walk across a small room. He was helpless.

And Ciel didn't _do _helpless. To be entirely at the mercy of another human being, of nature, of fate, had never turned out well for him. Mercy did not fucking exist. Money, and fanaticism, and inflated egos existed. Those things could save you occasionally. But not mercy.

It was because there was no magic mist in the air called _Justice _that bound people to treat one another with decency. Ciel had undergone all sorts of terrible things at the hands of all sorts of terrible people, and they all claimed to be working in the name of this Justice. But if they had been acting justly, they would have shown mercy. Justice was not some universal principle. Justice did not exist.

The darkness felt heavy. Choking. He was on his back, and he felt the black air press down on his lungs. There were no guards he could fight, no queen he could kill. Just this gigantic, suffocating nothingness and Ciel felt tiny.

Nausea squeezed his throat and he rolled over with a groan. The last time it was this dark, he had been beaten and burned and raped and it felt like they had peeled his skin back, layer by layer until he was nothing but a tiny, broken pile of bones and blood and there was nothing he could do, nothing that could ever rectify who he became because of that. They had degraded him to a broken shell of a human, afraid of his own head.

And that was why he knew that no priests would come to torture him this time – because they already lived behind his skull, laughing and screaming and praying just below the surface of his thoughts. Much better to leave the Earl Phantomhive here in this black room until the demons we injected into his brain start tearing him apart from the inside, oh yes.

He growled, squeezing his eyes shut. He was not a child anymore. He was stronger – he could survive this. He was not _helpless. _

The bile climbed his throat before he could swallow it back, and he heaved onto the stone floor under him. He shuffled away from the vomit that he _knew _would start to smell soon, _why couldn't he get a hold of himself –_

He lay back again with a groan, eyes blinking and begging to see something, _anything _before he went fucking _mad_ in this place –

Superficially, Ciel was annoyed.

And he wasn't equipped to deal with the shit beyond the surface just yet.

* * *

><p>Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap.<p>

His fingers drummed against the stone with rhythm, and he couldn't manage to resist the urge to count each beat.

Tap-tap-tap.

(Three hundred and twenty four.)

Tap-tap-tap.

(Three hundred and twenty five.)

Tap-tap-tap.

(Three hundred and twenty six.)

The darkness was something he was growing accustomed to now. He didn't know how long he'd been in here. Maybe only an hour, maybe a couple days. But now when he dozed, and woke up to black space all around him, his heart didn't pound quite so painfully against his ribs, like it was trying to rip itself free and find some light. When he woke up, he knew where he was now. He knew he had to wait until he could stand to try and get out of this place.

Tap-tap-tap.

(Three hundred and forty six.)

Tap-tap-tap.

(Three hundred and forty seven.)

Tap-tap-tap.

(Three hundred and forty eight.)

There was something innately hopeful about keeping track of time. Of counting intervals as they pulsed evenly along. All was not lost, he thought to himself.

Tap-tap-tap.

(Four hundred and twelve.)

Look at him, being so optimistic. The thought made him flash a short-lived smirk up at the black ceiling.

He would escape this place. He would find a weapon, or fashion himself one, and he would start cutting people down. Men and women, young and old, healthy and sick – all of them would fall by his hand. He would be a raging storm, a destructive force that righted all the natural order of things. Not quite like justice…more like a clean slate. He would murder them all.

And when he made his way down to Alois Trancy and Ash Landers and Mary Tudor the First (the _Last), _no one had to know that he would celebrate their deaths especially.

Tap-tap-tap.

(Five hundred and sixty two.)

* * *

><p>His stomach growled.<p>

Would they starve him?

It seemed likely. They wanted to keep him here until he died.

His stomach growled again, and dull panic flared up in his chest for a moment.

He needed more time.

(Nine hundred and eighty three.)

* * *

><p>He thought about when he'd been a child, and his father had led him out into their garden. He had showed Ciel the stars, and told him that God was there to be seen even in the darkest of times.<p>

He frowned at the memory.

"_When things are dark and dismal, he lets us know he's still there for us to see, if we just look up."_

He stared at the blank ceiling, and his hoarse voice almost made him jump out of his skin.

"I'm looking up, father. I'm looking up now. Where are you?"

The blackness just stared back at him. The nothingness of it seemed infinite, abysmal. Ciel sighed.

"That's what I thought. Talking to myself now."

He felt fear gnaw a little at his hopeful resolve. (After all there was nothing written in the universe that said he was destined to make it out of here alive there was only this dark room with no stars and his own broken body –)

If a man thought life had a purpose, he should spend some time (Two thousand three hundred and twenty two) in this black room. His confidence in that notion would promptly wash away.

* * *

><p>The voice washed over him like something sweet and wholesome.<p>

"Ciel! Ciel, little one –"

He did not know what was happening. His brain was fogged up with sleep and hunger, starvation really (it _was _seven thousand eight hundred and forty five), and he couldn't think clearly.

"Ciel, everything will be alright now –"

That voice was heaven. Like rich, dark velvet and it reminded him of tall trees and stars and the smell of leaves and gunpowder. He felt himself being moved. He didn't know where, but he supposed it didn't really matter. None of it mattered. It was nice though, that he got to hear this voice for a bit. He didn't open his eyes.

When he next awoke, he felt something softer than stone under him. The air in his lungs felt cleaner somehow. He opened his eyes, and _Jesus _that hurt, how long had he been in that prison cell?

He looked down at himself to see that someone had changed him into a clean dressing gown. He shifted his legs, and it didn't feel like a hacksaw was gnawing at his knee anymore. His stomach growled, but he had the distinct feeling that he had eaten something recently.

He glanced up and around. He was in an all-too-familiar canvas tent, and slumped in the corner was…

Oh God.

"_Sebastian!"_

Red eyes were open instantly, and Ciel couldn't breathe. Michaelis rose and darted to Ciel with incredible speed, and he'd never seen a thing move with so much grace.

"Little one." His voice, _God _his voice was Ciel's favorite sound, and this was the happiest moment of his life.

"Little one?" Concerned ruby eyes hit his face and Ciel waved a hand in dismissal, he knew he was crying but he just couldn't believe…

"You came." His voice cracked horribly. "I didn't think…"

Sebastian shook his head, sleek hair glinting off the soft glow of the tent and it was like the stars Ciel had searched after for so long, and the tears ran faster and his chest tightened around a sob. Sebastian's arms circled around him and held him tight, and he came apart.

"Of course I came, little one. Word of your treason has spread across England. Riots were starting left and right, it wasn't hard to find someone who knew where you were being held. I am so sorry, Ciel. We should have listened to you about Sutcliff. _I _should have listened."

He let the words surround him, warm and soft like a blanket in the cold. He could stay like this forever. Another sob broke loose from him at the thought.

"Shh…everything will be okay now, Ciel. I'll take care of you now."

He burrowed deeper into Sebastian's chest, breathing him in, wanting more somehow. He wished he could be wrapped up in this embrace and still stare at the man – everything about him was comforting right now and Ciel could not get enough. Soon his sobs eased into gentle sniffles, and the small sliver of dignity he had left forced him to pull away with a deep breath, avoiding Michaelis' gaze.

"We ought to get you some food, they were starving you…hang on a moment, little one."

He fought the panic that rose up as Sebastian stood and turned, reaching down to something Ciel couldn't see. Ciel just stared at him, half-formed words on his lips and he couldn't get any of them out. Too much had happened, and too fast.

Sebastian turned back to him holding a bowl with something steaming in it. The smell made his mouth water, and for a moment his emotions were pushed to the side by instinct.

He sat up without pain and took the offered bowl from Sebastian's beautiful, outstretched hands. When the spoonful of stew hit his tongue, it was better than anything he'd ever tasted. For a moment, the need for sound gave way to the need for more of this flavor.

He could hear a smile in Michaelis' voice. "Bard prepared it especially for you. I believe the man has outdone himself this time."

He nodded in earnest agreement, unable to restrain his enthusiasm. It wasn't long before there was none left, and Ciel frowned at the bottom of the bowl. He heard a beautiful laugh.

"Do not look so glum there, Ciel. I'll get you another bowl. Then you must rest."

His presence was gone then with a movement of the tent flap, and Ciel had room to think. Escape had happened to him, and he hadn't even done it himself. The implications were…unfathomable. He was giddy, he was home. The air in the tent seemed to sparkle.

Before he knew it Sebastian was back. Ciel snatched the bowl from him the second it was within reach, and felt much more satisfied as this one was finished off. He looked up at Sebastian. The pale skin, the deep red of his eyes, the aristocratic angle of his nose. He felt his mouth quirk up into a small smile as he stared, and Sebastian seemed to understand so he said nothing.

"I missed you, Michaelis."

The man snorted. "Back to a last-name basis now, are we?"

Ciel smirked, a weak, transparent thing, but it was a start. "Well it has been a while. I figure we've got some catching up to do."

Sebastian chuckled. "Later we will. Right now, you must sleep. You are more exhausted than you realize." He pushed him gently back into the cot, and Ciel's eyelids immediately felt heavy. He had to say something, before he slept. What was it…

"Sebastian." His voice sounded like it was coming from underwater.

"Yes, Ciel?"

"Don't leave. Please don't leave."

A small pause, and then if Ciel hadn't been so tired, he could have sworn he heard sadness in Michaelis' voice. "Of course, little one. I will be here when you wake up."

He was warm. He let himself drift away.

* * *

><p>When he opened his eyes and all he saw was darkness, he couldn't stop the gasp that fell from his lips. The stone was cold under him, and he was dreaming, he had to be dreaming, he tried to get away –<p>

And pain assaulted him from all sides of his body. His breath came in ragged pants. He was having a flashback, or a nightmare, if he just stayed calm he could wait this out and Sebastian would be there.

But time passed, and nothing changed. A broken, wild sound vibrated at the back of his throat. There was no way – he can't have just – was his rescue just a dream?

He squinted and felt a tear fall onto his face and slide back into his hair. It had felt so real. The comfort, the taste of Bard's stew, the texture of Sebastian's arms. The sound of his voice. He couldn't – he couldn't have made that up in his own head, he couldn't. It had all felt so real.

But as he shifted on his back, this felt real too. The lancing pain. The pressing black air. A rising stench, probably coming from his spell of nausea a few thousand tap-tap-taps ago. And now he could remember…he remembered that right before he had drifted off to sleep, he had been at seven thousand eight hundred and twenty two. Not forty five.

A broken, keening sob burst past his lips then, and his whole form shook. He screamed, and fought and writhed until he was standing. He limped agonizingly forward, hands outstretched and throat catching on wild breaths, until he felt wood. It was rough and splintery, but he ran his hands over it anyway until the doorknob reached his grasping fingers. He yanked and pulled, no patience left in him, and when it didn't budge he only got more agitated. He twisted and pounded on the door, screaming _LETMEOUT _and _PLEASEFORTHELOVEOFGOD _and _I'LLKILLYOU _and other things he himself didn't quite catch.

He was at it maybe for hours, maybe for days (he had lost count) before he slumped to the floor. He felt his stomach shrinking in on itself. He felt his hands, splintered and bruised. He felt his knee, still useless but as it turned out it didn't even fucking matter if it healed because there was no way out. It was too dark here, and he was too hungry here. He was going to die in this place. And now, it probably wouldn't take too long.

He hated Sebastian. He hated him for causing all of this. There was nothing left now, no ounce of hope.

Ciel had ceased believing in a purpose of human life years ago. His belief in God had been snuffed out. His hopes for happiness had withered away when he realized just how degraded his soul had become. Ciel's sole purpose for this life, the only thing he had lived for, had been revenge. The hope that one day, he could kill the people that had done this to him.

And as he sat slumped at the foot of the wooden door, in this dark, freezing room with no food or water, he knew he would die before he got his chance.

A tear trickled down his face, and he heaved a great, final sigh as he did the one thing he promised never to do.

He gave up.

* * *

><p>Time passed differently after that. He wasn't sure if it was faster or slower, but it really just ceased to matter. Reality felt more like it had during his conversion, more cloudy and distant, like he was watching a scene before him rather than experiencing this himself. The pain hurt less, and the hunger didn't bother him so much. He knew there would probably come a time, when the starvation and the thirst (he was <em>so damn thirsty<em>) would drag him through the last throws of life. There would be tremendous pain then. There might even be feeble fighting then. His body would make a last-ditch effort to live then.

It wouldn't be long now. He could feel it.

He didn't think much, about the people in his life or the duties he had failed to uphold before he went. None of it mattered anymore. His brain was sluggish from hunger, and the priests' voices were only a distant echo bouncing off the back of his skull.

So he was still. And he waited, not caring too much when his death came or how painful it'd be. What would come would come.

* * *

><p>He woke to commotion. There were sounds, loud sounds, just outside the door. He felt his brows furrow, and felt annoyed. Why couldn't they let him sleep…<p>

There was a loud bang, and Ciel jumped with a yelp that hurt his throat and spent the last reserves of energy his body was clinging onto. Another bang, and the wooden door swung open and hit the wall and blinding yellow light flooded the room and he hissed and clenched his eyes shut.

More voices, more people who wouldn't fucking shut up, and couldn't they just leave him _alone. _He didn't know what was happening but he heard the sound of boots against the stone floor and it seemed that people had entered his room.

The voices were so loud, and he thought he heard his name but he couldn't be sure. He opened his eyes again and it was still so _bright_ it felt like someone had taken a club to the back of his head.

"Ciel…hurt…get…"

He didn't recognize the voice, and he tried to concentrate but it just wasn't working anymore. He was starving. He was dying, and he knew it.

"Stay…me…Ciel."

This voice caused a strange, weak flip of his empty stomach. He tried to make out what it was saying, but it was like deciphering hieroglyphs. His eyes slipped closed again.

Something shook him, and he moaned weakly. "…awake…one!"

The first voice sounded. "Sebastian…clear…"

"We must…out…"

He felt his body move, felt the sharp pain of it that quickly melted into a dull ache. The agony returned in tiny sharp bursts, and there was a rhythm to it, like someone was shaking his body to a tempo.

"Keep…awake!"

He didn't know what was happening. This didn't feel like last time, when he had been dreaming. This was loud. This felt like dying. There was no relief here.

"Open your eyes."

The voice was so smooth, and Ciel obeyed. He saw red eyes that glowed like something demonic, that sparkled like crystalized blood. They were so beautiful. Ciel kept his eyes open, and the light hurt so much. But everything hurt. He didn't quite remember the reason, but he knew that seeing this was worth the pain.

"Stay awake for me, my Ciel."

He swallowed, and searched those red eyes for something as he croaked, "Are you a dream?"

Sebastian's mouth turned up at the corners, and he looked gentler than he ever had.

"No. This is real, little one. You're safe now."

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for reading everybody! Next one will be here soon :)<strong>


	14. Persisting

**Oh my god guys, how did this even happen.**

**So I do not have the time or patience to edit this in, but Ciel MUST be read as AT LEAST fifteen years old. It's just straight-up necessary now. Sexual content happened, I don't even really know how because I hadn't really intended on this being a slash fic. But their characters just...I dunno, Ciel and Sebastian themselves wouldn't let it go. I tried my best to make them behave.**

**If you are offended, I am sorry. I will send anyone an edited, slash-free version at their request.**

**Obviously, I do not condone sexual acts with a minor and none of Ciel or Sebastian's actions should be emulated. And I also don't own this anime.**

**In other news, THANK YOU SO MUCH for all your reviews, and holy hell, this story has gotten over a thousand views in the last seven days. That is insane to me. Thank you so much. At this rate I'll have this story cranked out in just a few weeks. Please keep it up, and thank you all from the bottom of my heart!**

* * *

><p>Counting Dropping Heads<p>

Fourteen: Persisting

* * *

><p>"She is everything to me; more to me than suffering, more to me than wrong, more to me – Well! This is idle talk."<p>

Charles Dickens

* * *

><p>He remembered a carriage ride. He remembered opening his eyes for a moment and seeing the familiar colors of his carriage and he couldn't think enough to be confused – wasn't he with Michaelis? He remembered food in his mouth, some coarse bread that made him cough and sputter because the shit was like sandpaper going down. He remembered closing his eyes every time he opened them, and willing himself never to wake up again.<p>

He remembered soft voices and gentle hands, but in the same way that he remembered the filthy cages and red robes from years ago as if it had all happened to him yesterday. Any certainty had been swallowed up in a hungry haze.

It was like floating in foamy water. The voices, the colors and tastes and textures slid past him and over him and then they were gone and he forgot about them.

"Young Master?"

He opened his eyes. He didn't know why he did – after all he wasn't the same person, and he should not perk up into consciousness at the sound of his butler's voice. Later he would suppose it was because of years of habit, of starting his mornings when he heard that title of his. He squinted and saw Tanaka's elderly face smiling down at him.

"It is good to see you awake, Young Master. You have had such a problem of sleeping in lately."

He blinked and glanced around, rubbing grit from his eyes. He was in his carriage. The bench across him was covered in blankets and crates and papers. Tanaka stood crouched in his standard gray attire. Ciel swallowed, and nearly choked.

"Ah, yes. Let me assist you, sir." A fine crystal glass was pressed to his lips, and the water in it was more than he thought he would ever taste again. A thirst that bordered on panic crashed into him and bowled him over and he couldn't gulp it down fast enough.

"Young Master, you must pace yourself. If you make yourself sick, your thirst will only make you more miserable."

Ciel nodded shakily, and the next glass was downed more slowly.

Tanaka refilled the glass once more, and then stared intently at him. Ciel could see the specks of gold in his old brown eyes.

"What do you remember, Young Master?"

_A cold, dark, stinking room. Slowly dying, and slowly growing eager for it. My best friend betraying me. Words of a fanatic, about his ceremony and his witchcraft and my parent's blood. How he tore their faces off like the skin of animals for slaughter, while they were still alive, god they were still alive to feel it all. How he must have started the fire to hide the mess. _

_Sebastian's shaken voice._

Ciel looked away. "I am not sure where I am."

Tanaka smiled then, a welcome, familiar thing. "After your arrest, I gathered your most essential belongings and took your carriage to the outskirts of London. You were captured over two weeks ago."

_Two weeks._ Ciel blinked, then frowned at Tanaka. "I was _arrested _two weeks ago. Not captured."

His butler's face was like a wall, unyielding. "You were captured, by the queen."

"Exactly. Why did you choose to run?"

Tanaka just smiled his old smile, and let out a hearty chuckle. Like the question wasn't even worth a response.

"Tanaka." The commanding resolve he heard in his own voice was something of a relief to him.

The man bowed. "We are safe, Young Master. Michaelis and his troops are with us."

Ciel's stomach dropped. So he had not imagined it. "Did Seb–Michaelis assist you when you took me from the prison?"

"On the contrary, Michaelis did it with just three others. I remained here, with your possessions."

Ciel considered feigning indifference, then asked anyway, "Is he – why did he, or any of the others, agree to help me?"

Something sparkled in Tanaka's eyes for a second, and then it was gone and Ciel thought he imagined it. "When I met him, Michaelis made it perfectly known to me that he harbored nothing but goodwill toward you, and would ensure your safety at great personal risk."

His brows furrowed, but he let it drop. "Where is he now?"

"Why, he's just outside, Young Master. Eating breakfast with the others."

It was as if water had been pressed to his lips all over again. He swallowed, and stared at the door of the carriage and braced his muscles.

"Ah – no, sir, you mustn't stand at this time. Your body is still very weak." Tanaka's hands were on his chest, holding him in place.

"But S – Michaelis, I mean, he is –"

"–Is available to visit you here, if you should request for him to do so."

Ciel opened his mouth to retort, and then closed it and relaxed into the carriage bench again. "How long am I to stay here then?"

Tanaka retracted his hands. "Until you are fit to be moved to a tent. We believe several of your bones were broken, and there was extensive bruising when we cleaned you up."

_That never stopped Michaelis before_. The half-bitter thought caught Ciel off-guard. He had been a prisoner of war then…and he had to admit, Michaelis had never hurt him this badly. Everything _ached._

His next question was interrupted by a sinister growl – he glanced down, and it took a moment to realize the sound was coming from his own stomach. Tanaka chuckled.

"I may be able to assist you, sir. I took the trouble of preparing something tasty, yet easy on the stomach while you were asleep. It ought to fill you for the time being until the cook here can brew you up something of more substance."

And he held up – _god, _he loved his butler – he held up a big piece of chocolate cake. His mouth watered at the sight, and he barely repressed the desperate whine that bubbled at the back of his throat. He reached out and Tanaka let him take it once he knew Ciel wouldn't drop it. He lifted the forkful of cake to his mouth, and closed his eyes as the taste filled him up, sunk slowly through his body and set his nerves alight. He made a soft sound, and took another bite, and another, and it was gone all too soon.

He licked his lips before opening his eyes again. "Thank you, Tanaka."

The old man smiled. "Of course, Young Master."

He felt a lump at his throat then, and he did his best to smile back. He could not quite pretend to be dignified, or well put-together now. But maybe he could slowly rebuild himself if he had his old, worn butler to make him chocolate cake.

So much for simple pleasures.

* * *

><p><em>Ash Landers had never been so exhilarated.<em>

_He had broken into their manor with ease, visited the kitchen to gather the supplies he required, and gathered the couple from their bedroom. The wife had sobbed and thrashed, and the husband had fought. But he was trained to combat much more skilled opponents, and many more at a time than just two. Moving them to the drawing room had been easy._

_He bound them and sat them next to each other on a large love seat. The wife was very beautiful, he had always thought so when he saw her at royal gatherings and balls. She had shining blonde hair and flawless, porcelain skin – her cobalt blue eyes would be beautiful as well, if they hadn't been red-rimmed and filled with panicked tears. Her screaming was starting to annoy him. This was a momentous night, after all – hundreds of years from now, all of England would remember this night as the cornerstone of Catholicism's victory over the filthy heathens. Landers' breath came faster at the thought, and his mouth watered._

_He'd always known he would make history._

_But the wife was dousing his mood in filthy water. He lifted the dagger and pressed it to her porcelain neck, hard. The knife wobbled as she swallowed, blue eyes sparkling. She was the epitome of lovely._

_He licked his lips. "How about I give you something to cry about, darling?"_

_Her breath hitched, and he pressed the knife harder. A few strands of golden hair fell across her face. Her nightgown was soft and white. He wondered if she knew that these were her last few moments of beauty._

_He started at her lovely little widow's peak. As the screaming began, he saw her husband thrash at the edges of his vision, like a spirit that wasn't really there and was easy to ignore. The woman writhed and clawed, screamed giving way to something less than human as he slid down the soft flesh of her perfect nose, through her rosy lips, back up her angled jaw. The blood poured and gathered and spurted in places and Landers had to catch his tongue in his teeth to hold back his own sounds of ecstasy. He had to stay focused – Her Majesty depended on him not to get carried away._

_The last snag, the pull – and then he had it in his hands, her sobs coloring the background. He released a breathless laugh before controlling himself, his grin hurting his cheeks. It was like holding wet parchment, thinner than he'd imagined. He could see the muscles and the flesh and the bone and the teeth on the right side of her face and he grimaced happily._

"_You're hideous, darling. The Holy Father sees you."_

_He pressed his fingers into the flesh of her cheek, her outlandish, animalistic keen reaching a pitch he could barely register. He smeared the blood over her whole face, and he smiled at how easy it was to degrade something that had looked so lovely just moments ago._

_He grabbed her face, and turned it toward the man, staring down his nose at her. "Look at your pretty wife. She's wretched underneath, eh? Delightful."_

_He didn't listen to her husband's strangled reply. He stared at her once more. The flesh was shredded and sliced everywhere. Half her face bared teeth and stared too widely. Blood covered everything, hot and thick. Better that she die, rather than to continue living like this, so ruined. He would remember this face for the rest of his life._

"_Fucking heathen," he spat at her. He turned to face the husband. He smiled, raising the dagger to his delightfully strong jawline. He pressed –_

"CIEL!"

He woke up fighting – he flailed and kicked and roared before snapping his eyes open and realizing how much noise he was making. His teeth clicked as he snapped his mouth shut, eyes wide and staring.

His brain battled to catch up. The scene with Landers, with his parents – it was just a dream. He reached up and skated his fingers across his face, feeling the skin there before they curled into his hair. _Fuck, _that had been awful.

He was in his carriage. Probably in the woods somewhere. Each fraction of forgotten information clicked into place one at a time until Ciel exhaled and was sure he wasn't missing anything. Every time he blinked, he saw a mutilated face. So he kept his eyes open.

He jumped when he heard someone clear their throat. He glanced up, and Sebastian Michaelis was there. Just _standing _there, looking at him. His eyes – and his smile, and the firm set of his shoulders, and all of him – his dream had nothing on this. He memorized the sight before him.

When Sebastian opened his mouth, Ciel braced himself.

"Ciel. I am overjoyed that we were able to retrieve you in time."

His voice was velvet, and a light breeze would have toppled Ciel to the carriage floor. Sebastian took a step forward and knelt before him, movements sleek and clean. The red of his eyes sparkled like blood, and Ciel kept his eyes open to drive the images of his mother's face down to the farthest, deepest corners of his head as they got close enough for Sebastian's breath to ghost over his face. Sebastian was suddenly all around him, covering every inch of his skin.

"Little one…"

The emotion in this man's face was too much to take with steady breath. Ciel blinked –

–and saw his mother's flesh and there was blood everywhere and her screaming _bounced off the walls_ –

His eyes snapped open with a growl, and he did the only thing he could think of. He backhanded Sebastian hard across the face. His head snapped to the side.

"Get out."

Ciel could see how wide the man's eyes were as he recovered, turning in his direction again. His mouth opened, then closed. He stood and bowed low, eyes tight.

"As you wish, Ciel."

He watched Sebastian turn and leave without another glance. The carriage door clicked shut, and only then did he realize his breath was coming in angry, ragged pants. He looked across at the crates on the opposite bench and listened as each breath tripped over the next. He felt like a storm was ripping his organs out and up his throat. He realized he was furious. The revelation only made the vicious heat flare to greater size, and he saw black in the corners of his vision.

"Young Master!" Tanaka's voice registered, but Ciel was somewhere else. He saw a man with blood-slicked hands. He saw a crazed smile. He saw fire.

Something snapped.

"FUCK!" He flung the quilts off him and made to stand, only to feel something pressing against the motion. He looked up and saw his butler speaking to him with stress in his eyes. He growled and fought and kicked, but he was too weak to overtake the aged, decrepit son of a bitch.

"Young Master, please do not hurt yourself!"

He screamed then, as loud as he could, and a voice that sounded like Alois asked if he was acting like a child but it was quickly strangled by the rest of him that would not sit still until _something _bled. His fingers dug into the fabric of the bench beneath him and he felt pain somewhere, but he felt like his insides were burning anyway and he should have let that fire turn him to dust, no one should be forced to live this way –

He looked Tanaka in the face. "_Put me back in that prison cell._"

His butler's forehead was shining as he averted Ciel's glare and held him firm against the bench. "I cannot do that for you, Young Master. You need to sleep, you will feel better when you wake up –"

"NO, _I WILL NOT!_"

He sat up against his body's permission and got in Tanaka's face and _god, _why couldn't anyone just _help _him for _once in his goddamned life _–

He held his breath so the shaking would let up enough for him to stare hard at the old man. He could feel something like ice in his working eye.

"I will not."

Tanaka looked away again after a moment, reaching up to wipe the sweat from his brow. He felt sorry for causing him such stress, but he needed him to _understand. _There was nothing…nothing left. The nightmares of his carved-up mother would blindside him every single night until he died. That blank, black ceiling was burned into his corneas, and it would never leave him now.

The man stood, avoiding his gaze but his back was straight. He raised his hand to his heart in a show of stiff formality. "I apologize Young Master. I will remain here, watching after your health, whether you wish for healing or not."

Ciel stared at him, and hated him. "_Get out._"

Tanaka shook his head. "I refuse, Young Master."

Ciel wished he could reach for something to throw at him, something heavier than the pillow behind him. He hated this man, why wouldn't –

A knock sounded at the carriage door, and Tanaka jumped to answer it. Ciel craned his neck as the door opened, and he caught a glimpse of Bard's tearful gaze before the door was shut again, and Tanaka had a steaming mug in his hands.

"Drink this, Young Master."

Ciel glared. "No."

"_Ciel!_" Tanaka floored him with a hard, thousand-year-old stare that promised every childhood punishment if it wasn't met with compliance.

It was enough for Ciel to reach his hand out and take the offered drink, but it was still a few full minutes before he tore his glare away to look down at the creamy brown liquid.

"What is this?"

"It is a sleep aid. You will suffer no nightmares if you drink this."

He stared at it for a while before lifting it to his lips. It tasted like caramel and the thought of Bard brewing something that tasted so sweet was painful enough to make him screw his eyes shut. He hadn't seen any of them for months, and the first sight he's given of Bard is one that made the gigantic, gruff man look like a kicked puppy.

He handed the empty mug to Tanaka without looking at him. He lay down and rolled away from him, closing his eyes against the childish tears that prodded at his resolve. He heard his butler shift, and his sigh sounded exhausted and Ciel reminded himself that he did not care.

"I will be here when you wake up, Young Master."

Ciel's body tensed and fought, but the tear escaped anyway and soaked soundlessly into the pillow.

* * *

><p>To solidify Ciel's proficiency in Italian, his tutor had assigned Dante's <em>Inferno.<em> The smiley eight-year-old had taken to it with near-disturbing enthusiasm, chattering about it to the servants while they tried to work and loudly declaring how it was, officially, his favorite book of all time.

His parents had looked oddly concerned when he told them this, and one day in the drawing room they asked a lot of questions. Did Ciel think that the hell presented in the book was a good place? Did Ciel approve of the characters dwelling in hell? What exactly was it that made Ciel like the book so much?

Ciel scoffed and angled his chin up, knowing it made him look older. "Of course I do not like the place, or the people!"

His mother frowned, a pretty little crease marring the space between her brows. "Then what makes you like it?"

Ciel grinned. "The sinners belong there. When the men at church talk about how you'll be thrown into hell if you sin, I always feel scared. But the book is telling me I won't end up there."

His father leaned in a little. "What makes you say that, Ciel?"

"The only people down there are the ones that don't want to change. They don't listen. But I do, father! I will be okay!"

A laugh fell from his mother's lips, and it sounded like a song. "Oh Ciel, you had us worried that you were misinterpreting the message of the work. Sometimes I wonder if that tutor isn't feeding him material that is too advanced." This was obviously directed at his father, and Ciel felt a bit excluded from the conversation. But then his father smiled and looked at Ciel.

"Could you explain further, Ciel?"

He frowned in thought. "Well…when someone tells you not to do something, and you do it anyway, usually you get punished. And then you listen to them next time. But hell is for the people that will never listen, no matter how many times they're punished. They belong there. And that makes me feel better, because I do not think I belong there."

His father laughed. "No Ciel, you most certainly do not belong there. Good work, son."

Ciel beamed, then frowned. "But…I was confused about the tree people."

His parents gave him their full attention again.

"They were turned into trees and eaten by dogs. But all they did was kill themselves. How is that wrong?"

His parents sat still for a moment, his father in his lovely blue suit and his mother in her lace gown. They, the three of them, were more fortunate than most. Most had sad lives, and underwent suffering and tragedy. He could not quite imagine it yet…but he did not feel fit to judge those who wished to end their own lives. How miserable must a person be to _want_ something so terrible?

His mother shook her head. "Because the Bible tells us that suicide is very wrong."

Ciel furrowed his brow. "But why? Murder, and stealing – that makes sense, why the Bible would say that they are wrong. People shouldn't hurt other people. But. If you are sad and you don't wish to live anymore, why is it wrong to stop living? It does not hurt anyone else."

"Because it is immoral – Ciel, you should not think about things like that." His father frowned at him.

Ciel did not understand. "But if –"

"_Listen, _Ciel. The Bible tells us that suicide is immoral. The characters in the Seventh Circle live without hope that God will provide for them. They cast their hope aside, so they do away with their own bodies. Man is not meant to live without hope. It is wrong."

He felt the end of this discussion in his mother's tone. The drawing room was bright and cheerful, and he supposed that made sense. He was sure hope was important somehow. He could not imagine life without it.

Maybe he would understand when he grew older.

That Christmas, his parents gave Ciel a beautiful new copy of the _Inferno, _rendered in English.

* * *

><p>The next couple of weeks passed in a blur that Ciel would not later remember in any great detail. Tanaka attended to him as his body healed, as he ate light treats and bread, and drank a lakeful of water. He felt stronger every day, and it was not long before his butler was unable to keep Ciel contained on his small carriage bench. Usually, though, Ciel felt much too restricted by those outside the small space to leave its confines.<p>

Bard would bring him food at least twice a day, his hunched shoulders and fidgety posture contradicting the loud and loyal stature Ciel had gotten to know so well. It was difficult to remember that Bard had screamed at him the morning after he ran Sutcliff through with his sword – he seemed heartbroken that Ciel had been so mistreated by the Catholic enemy. Finally one day, it became too much for Ciel; as Bard cracked open the door to hand Tanaka a warm cup of peppermint-flavored hot chocolate, Ciel sat up on the bench.

"Bard."

The blonde man jumped, eyes wide and broken.

"Would you like to come in? I want to talk to you."

Bard looked terrified, then visibly shook off his fear. His voice cracked as he mumbled out a "Of course, Mr. Ciel, sah."

The carriage rocked as the massive man stepped up into the carriage. Tanaka sat on the bench across from Ciel, which had since been cleared of all Ciel's precious belongings. Bard stood in the center, the picture of awkward discomfort.

"Tch. Bard, sit down."

He rushed to sit next to Tanaka, who wrinkled his nose in distaste, and the carriage rocked again. This man needed to take a lesson in grace – it would probably help in war.

"So Bard, I understand that –"

"I am sorry!"

Ciel looked up in surprise, and saw Bard nearly on the verge of tears. He sighed – seeing the man like this annoyed him. Bard was supposed to be strong, and tall, and loud, and he was supposed to be a terrible cook. But instead he was weepy and caring and apologetic and he kept preparing painstakingly delicious treats for him _every day. _

"Why are you sorry, Bard?"

"I – we ran an investigation on Grell, and – you were right to kill him, Mr. Ciel, we did not even ask about the circumstances –"

Ciel stayed calm. "You had no obligation to do so. Up until recently I had been a prisoner at your camp. You had no reason to trust me over an established member of your forces."

"But you taught us so much, Mr. Ciel. Taught _me…_we should 'ave trusted you. We _owed _you that."

He swallowed. "You owed me nothing."

"We _still _owe you. You did not deserve – whatever it was that 'appened to you." Bard cast his eyes down, as if he wanted to ask but was too afraid to do so. His voice had been quiet and subdued throughout the entire conversation.

Ciel sighed. "What happened to me was…perhaps the last ordeal I will be able to endure. But I take no stock in what one _deserves, _or does not deserve. Events happen as they happen, not because they should."

The man looked fit to cry, and Ciel figured he should stop this. "Bard –"

"Mr. Ciel, I am so –"

"No, Bard, listen –"

"No, we here are_ all sorry_! We all saw the damage them Catholics caused when you were brought to us the first time. You were wronged by them, and we let them wrong you again. They must be punished for what they did, sah. Because you did. Not. _Deserve it_."

Bard put his head in his hands, and Ciel's mouth hung open slightly. Silence filled the small space for a few moments, broken only by Bard's strained noises and Tanaka's uncomfortable shifting. His butler really was not equipped to live in this sort of environment, with rugged and uneducated peasants surrounding his decadent little fortress on all sides. He was meant to manage wide-sweeping estates and greet refined nobles at the massive front door. Ciel regretted dragging him into this mess.

When he stood, only a little pain nagged at his body. Bard looked up, coiled to jump up if Ciel suddenly collapsed, The eyes trained on him as he lowered himself next to Bard as smoothly as he could, suppressing a wince. Ciel looked the man in the face, pinning him with the gaze he always used to when he would teach him to shoot muskets at a far-away target.

"Bard. Terrible things happen all the time. Most of the soldiers at this camp have horrendous stories to tell. I'm sure that you have your fair share."

He saw memories playing behind Bard's eyes as the man looked away, and he continued.

"But what's done is done. Stop moping about what happened to me. It cannot be reversed. Stop apologizing."

He paused. "And I forgive you, for what it's worth."

The tiny smile he cracked seemed to flip some switch in Bard's demeanor – the man beamed, and sat straight up, facing Ciel head-on with a sparkle in his eyes. He spoke again in his typical booming tone, and Ciel suppressed a smirk at the way Tanaka jumped subtly in the corner.

"Thank you, sah! From this day forth I vow to be your protector!"

While he wasn't quite displeased with the reaction, Ciel leaned disdainfully back in his seat anyway. "You will do no such thing. Every soldier at this camp must fight in the name of Protestantism. If you die protecting me, I will never forgive you."

Bard visibly slumped, but it was obvious that all was well. Ciel concealed his grin until Bard had toppled out later with much noise, carriage shuddering under his graceless weight.

* * *

><p>Ciel fidgeted as the sun went down.<p>

When he had first been rescued, his body had been too exhausted to avoid sleep. Tanaka provided sleep aids almost every night so that nightmares could be avoided, but as he healed Ciel had begun to refuse them, only drinking them when the nightmares woke him up screaming. Over the past few days he had simply opted for staying awake, uneager to visit his parents' torn faces again.

He wished – uselessly, he knew – that he could just forget about it all. He had not lied to Bard when he said that this event was the last straw; his imprisonment had torn open rigid scars in his head and every bit of him was bleeding and chafing now. Forget happiness – Ciel had long stopped hoping for something so petty – he was not sure he could even summon the resolve to carry out his _vengeance_ before he ended it all.

The nighttime was not his friend, when it was accompanied by these sorts of musings. He dragged himself closer to ragged panic the more he thought, the more he stared at the black carriage ceiling.

Tonight it was too much – he bolted upright, back ramrod straight as he stared at the door, Tanaka's soft snores filling the small dark space.

He _had_ to get out of here.

He braced his hands on the side of the bench and slowly raised his body into a standing position – half for the sake of avoiding pained muscles and half for the sake of not waking his butler, who would surely tell him off and demand that he remain in the carriage. He stepped toward the door with a silent, practiced step, and opened it slowly before stepping through to the ground on the other side.

And god, he could see it all – the moon was full and the camp was lit up before him, the tents and the carts and piles of supplies, the cooking fire in the center and the logs all around it. Beyond that the trees stretched up into the sky, and when Ciel looked up he nearly sobbed…

…Because the stars. He could see all the stars.

He forced himself to watch the ground as he walked silently toward the trees, and his father's voice replayed in his head. He listened to him talk of God and darkness and safety, and things were so simple back then. He wished –

But he needed to stop wishing. What was done was done. Dead people could not return. He would have to settle for hearing his father's lessons echo in his brain. _God lets us know he's still there for us to see, if we just look up. _

He passed by tall oaks and pines and furs, and they loomed grayly over him, ageless and staring. Their roots tangled at Ciel's feet and he stepped over them all until he reached a clearing. The tall gray grass made his steps almost soundless and he saw his own shadow cast by the moonlight. He lowered himself to the ground in the center and lay down, staring up at the sky. The rims of the trees surrounded the edges of his vision like a ring, and the stars hung up in the middle of it like they could never be touched by humans. Ciel passed his eyes over it all hungrily, refusing to blink. If he had had a religion, _this_ would have been it.

He did not know how long he lay there staring. But he heard footsteps off to his right and sat up, tearing his eyes back down to earth. There was a vague shadow approaching, and Ciel pushed himself to his feet unthinkingly, staring as the newcomer stepped into the moonlight. Ciel did not let his face fall.

Of course it had to be Sebastian. The man walked toward him in worn trousers and a light-colored shirt, but all of him looked gray in this dim lighting. Ciel watched him wearily as the man held his hands up in a universal sign of peace, and stopped a safe distance away. Ciel glared, and listened to his heart thump in his ears. He wanted this man to go away.

"What do you want." It came out as a snapping demand, and the sound slapped against the silence unpleasantly.

Sebastian took a step closer, and Ciel could see the sadness in his eyes. They were luminous in the moonlight, and something painful stabbed at Ciel's heart.

"I saw you walking. I wish to speak with you, Ciel."

Ciel swallowed before holding his chin up higher. It always made him look older. "What if I do not wish to speak to you, Michaelis?"

Sebastian looked down, and Ciel did not want to be here. The man looked back up at him, and the pain was much more visible now. "Ciel, I – I do not know how to ask for your forgiveness. I do not deserve it, but I must ask anyway. I am so sorry, Ciel."

Just like that, the anger was back – it hit him with the force of a tidal wave, and Ciel snarled and stomped toward the man, getting in his face. "_What_ makes you think I _want_ your apologies? You could not – _THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT!"_

_God, _this hurt. He could not contain it anymore. He stared daggers into Sebastian's face, hating him and longing to just collapse into his arms already. Michaelis actually looked stunned at Ciel's outburst; it was an odd look on him. Ciel tried stepping back to catch his breath, but ended up stepping right back up to him and snarling out more in a savage, broken snarl.

"_Why_ could you not just _listen to my explanation_? If you had only heard what I had to say, I never would have been imprisoned. Why does everyone always – _fuck_, no one ever _STOPS_ these things from happening to me!"

Something inside him flared up with vicious heat, and he didn't realize what was happening until Ciel's fist had swung around in a full, powerful arc and Sebastian was on the ground holding his jaw. His breath was heavy, and he stared down at the man and wanted to kick him.

"You – you _FUCKING BASTARD! _I HATE YOU! WHY THE FUCK DID YOU NOT _PREVENT_ THIS, I – _I trusted you to keep this from happening again._"

The last part came out quiet. He felt a tear slide clumsily down his cheek, and he scrunched his eyes closed. Suddenly it was as if he was a puppet and his strings had been cut, and he fell to his knees. He curled forward, his palms pressing into his face like he was trying to push all the thoughts out of his head, all the memories and the hopelessness. A sob tightened every muscle in his body, and it was silent but his palms just pressed harder.

He didn't hear as Sebastian stood and got to him in two steps. He barely felt it as Sebastian wrapped his long fingers firmly around his arms and raised him up until Ciel was facing him again. He looked at the red eyes, trusting those arms to keep him upright as sobs wracked his frame and he threw himself forward, smashing his face into that chest and pounding his fists into the man's shoulder as Ciel threw obscenities and threats and hatred at him and Sebastian just held on tight.

Ciel did not know how long they stayed like that, but he appreciated that Sebastian stayed silent until the sobs stopped coming. He felt warm here, and safe here, even though he wasn't looking at the stars and it wasn't light outside. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, letting the feeling sink into him. The muscles under him tensed slightly, and when Sebastian's voice came, it was soft enough not to break him in two.

"I won't let this happen to you again."

He sniffed, and didn't move. His voice was barely a whisper.

"You cannot promise that."

He felt the arms around him tighten. "Yes, I can. No more harm will befall you, Ciel. Those around you have failed in keeping you safe. I will not."

Ciel closed his eyes and stayed silent. Sebastian lowered his head and whispered.

"Let me promise. _Please_."

He scrunched his eyes and burrowed further, everything crashing around his head with so much noise that his ears rang with it all. He clung to the warmth Sebastian's body offered, and found himself speaking.

"Do you keep your promises?"

"It would be unfitting of a commander not to do so."

He nearly smirked – such a response should have been expected. It was said with such firm, steely confidence that Ciel felt something inside him leaning, terrified but leaning…

And then the words came out. "You must _promise _to never leave me."

He felt rather than heard Sebastian's smile. The strong arms unwound and grasped his shoulders, pulling him back so they faced each other. Ciel saw the solid warmth and something_ so soft _in his eyes that his insides collapsed and rested, and there was peace in his head for a moment. As he took Ciel's face in his hands, a gentle smirk raised the edges of Sebastian's lips, and he spoke a phrase that was a both a joke, and not at all.

"Yes, my lord."

Something jumped in his stomach and he felt light, nearly weightless and without thinking he let it carry him. He leaned forward and he crashed his lips into Sebastian's.

The response was instant – a low, pleased groan passed from his lips to Ciel's and Sebastian deepened the kiss, moving their mouths together in a desperate push and pull and Ciel's heart sprinted to keep up. Something lit up and glowed in Ciel's body and _god_, he wanted more of this. Sebastian's hand curled behind the back of Ciel's neck and the other pulling him closer and Ciel needed _more –_

He leaned against him, their legs tangling as he pushed Sebastian onto his back. Their bodies pressed together and Ciel moaned into Sebastian's mouth at the sensation, the heat making his breath speed up and he needed – he needed –

Sebastian seemed to read his mind. Huge hands lowered and pulled until Ciel was straddling him, and the kisses turned frantic. Fingers tangled in dark hair and Ciel's hands caught the edge of Sebastian's shirt and he didn't hesitate before sliding them up and feeling the skin underneath. Sebastian shuddered beneath him and caught Ciel's lip between his teeth, and Ciel couldn't hold back the soft, wanton sound that fell from his lips.

He pulled his hands further up Sebastian's shirt, but the man under him had other ideas. With a low growl, he rolled them so that Ciel's back hit the ground, and Sebastian was looming over him, powerful and hungry and Ciel was lost when their lips met again, his legs curling around Sebastian's hips. Suddenly there was heat and aching need and sweet friction, and he couldn't be bothered with rational thought anymore.

His lips were wet and velvet and hot hands roamed his skin and he had never felt this way before, this unraveled but Sebastian's body was warm above his own and he knew he had nothing to worry about. He couldn't stop the sounds that were leaving his mouth, falling deep into Sebastian's as the taught body offered the friction Ciel _needneedneeded_ –

There were fumbling hands and breathless gasps and skin, his skin smelled _so good_ and it was suddenly hot against Ciel's own, and he lost himself, arms and lips full of this man and he never wanted to let go, couldn't let go even if he tried.

A hand found its way between them and stole Ciel's breath, and then it was all he could do just to keep up – he closed his eyes, the feeling indescribable as the heat built and built, and he writhed and arched and gasped and cried and whispered his name, and there was nothing better than this. He ran his nails down his back and whined at the sound he drew out of him, and his vision grew white around the edges, and he knew it was coming before he even knew what it was.

"Seb – Sebastian – _please_ –"

He wasn't sure what he was asking for exactly, but the body above him seemed to know. His eyes flew open with a gasp and there were stars and trees and deep red eyes and the heat spilled over and caught flame. His body coiled and shook as it released, light bursting in his vision as his mouth let loose a string of cries and curses that Sebastian captured in his own mouth.

Ciel lay back against the ground, out of breath and dazed as his thoughts returned to him. Sebastian leaned over him, pressing their foreheads together while a hand tangled into his hair. Ciel closed his eyes and just felt it all for a moment.

A rumbling chuckle caught his attention, and Ciel opened his eyes to stare at the man above him. Soft mirth lit up red eyes, and Sebastian's mouth quirked up conspiratorially.

"What?"

It turned into a smile. "When did you stop wearing that eye patch? I haven't seen it since you arrived here."

Ciel blinked. He hadn't noticed. He looked away with a frown, but then a hand felt at his cheek and Sebastian's eyes caught his again.

"Do not be concerned, little one. I am rather partial to the look, as you know."

Ciel chose not to respond, a wave of exhaustion pulling at his eyelids. He dimly saw Sebastian's fond smile, and then there was movement.

"Up you get, little one. Would you prefer my quarters or yours?"

Ciel gave a non-committal grunt, recognizing the sensation of being carried after a moment. He really did not care one way or the other, as long as it was someplace warm. He shivered, and burrowed closer to Sebastian's chest as the man started walking. He distantly realized that most of his clothes were back on again. Sebastian was good, he had to admit.

He peaked around and saw the camp, everyone still fast asleep. The sun was coming up in the distance, the moon and the stars fading and blending as the sky grew lighter. He felt more at peace than he had in much too long. His senses wove gently in and out of oblivion and he hoped they were close, because he _really_ wanted a good night's sleep now…

He barely noticed as he was lowered onto some soft surface. When the familiar, larger body lay down next to him, he finally allowed himself to drift away completely.

**Oh and I almost forgot! Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy BIRTHDAY dear GUUEEESSSTTTTT, happy birthday to you! (a bunch of days late but oh well)**


	15. Preparing

**I love watching the traffic graphs, they are so damn creepy. Hey, you. Yeah, you one single reader from South Africa. The one who read every chapter of this story.**

**...**

**...**

**Hi.**

**:D**

**Anyway, give some big virtual hugs to NotMoyashi, whose birthday was last week. May all your dreams come true, even if they include Ciel torture XD**

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><p>Counting Dropping Heads<p>

Fifteen: Preparing

* * *

><p>"The mender of roads looked <em>through <em>rather than _at _the low ceiling, and pointed as if he saw the gallows somewhere in the sky."

Charles Dickens

* * *

><p>Ciel awoke shivering.<p>

His eyes snapped open and he saw his breath fog, an early morning sun illuminating the tent canvas above his head. Winter was here.

It only took a moment to realize what had happened the night before; but when he rolled over and came face-to-face with Sebastian Michaelis, eyes closed and hair splayed this way and that, it couldn't stop him from jumping a little and tangling his hands in the blankets. He wriggled away only to be met with sheets as cold as ice, and he rolled right back over to face Sebastian. He huffed a little.

As if Sebastian had some sort of built-in frustration sensor that remained active even in sleep, an arm snaked around Ciel's waist and pulled him closer. It was warm, so Ciel couldn't find the strength to pull away. Brows furrowed, he closed his eyes with a sigh.

Details flickered past Ciel's closed eyes and he felt more awake every second. He didn't quite know how to feel about last night's proceedings. At least it distracted from the other, less pleasant images roaming about his head lately.

He remembered facing him in the forest. Sitting on the ground with him. He remembered arching into Sebastian's hold, calling his name, white-hot bursts of pleasure pulsing through him –

Experiences like that had never been pleasant for him; they had only ever been a form of torture. He was a little surprised that he had enjoyed it as much as he did. But another part of him scoffed – how could such actions with a man like Sebastian ever be anything but mind-blowing?

His eyes opened, the glowing tent canvas ceiling greeting his vision again. He turned his head to get Michaelis in view; his black lashes dusted his pale cheeks, raven hair feathered over his forehead. On anyone else, such features would have looked delicate, but instead he looked like a beautifully crafted armor with a few identifiable chinks, soft spots. The man did not look unflappable when he lay here like this. He wondered why Sebastian had picked someone like Ciel to see him when he looked so _human_. He had to fist his hands into the sheets to avoid reaching up to touch his face.

When he was awake, Sebastian sure did seem indestructible. Ciel did not know how to trust, but if he could hand his trust over to anyone it would have been this man. His heart pumped in his ears every time he thought of the promise Sebastian had made the night before. He had to wave the memory away with a calming breath every few minutes.

The canvas above him gradually brightened as an hour, maybe two passed. Ciel no longer kept much track of time; that urge had been left behind back in the Tower of London.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to think about it. But soon he was fidgeting and taking deliberately deep breaths. He had clung desperately to Sebastian Michaelis just last night, making a complete ass of himself instead of punching the man until he felt a little better about everything the bastard had caused. His life – while perpetually convoluted and abysmal – had nonetheless been so much _simpler_ before Sebastian had entered it. Sebastian offered him hope, and it forced him to dip his toes into the terrible emotions and memories that he'd ignored for years.

Despite these thoughts he stayed tucked close into the man's side, burrowing in the comfort he offered from the freezing cold. He made a mental note to ask Tanaka about the date when he got back to the carriage. Sebastian's chest was firm and muscled, and he couldn't deny he was more relaxed resting his face against it than he'd been in months.

He felt rather than saw Sebastian waking up – he felt the gentle tightening of muscles, the sudden deep breath, the hand that ran slowly down Ciel's arm before playing delicately with each of his fingers, and it did odd, pleasant things to Ciel's stomach. He felt the man's chest tighten as he shifted a little, and a velvet, sleep-softened voice spoke so gently near his ear it was almost a whisper.

"Little one." Strong arms wrapped all the way around him to rub his back, and Ciel turned his face up so that he could look at him, resting his chin against Sebastian's chest. The man smiled sleepily.

"Were you awake already?"

Ciel glanced up at the bright ceiling, letting the clarity in his eyes speak for themselves. Sebastian chuckled.

"How curious. I had you pinned as the type to sneak silently out in the dead of night after an affair such as ours."

Ciel blinked, then scowled. "Tch. Don't be so snide."

Sebastian's grin turned cheeky then, cinnamon eyes dancing. "Of course, little one." He caught Ciel's light shiver, and his smile softened a little. "Are you cold?"

His eyes narrowed, and decided that he much preferred a sleeping Sebastian to the conscious kind. "No."

The arms tightened around him anyway, and he shot him an unimpressed glance despite the sudden warmth that buzzed in his chest. When had this become so easy again? It was hard to imagine that he had decked this man in the face but a few hours ago.

Sebastian seemed to see right through him, and his gaze turned very soft. His voice was the closest thing to hesitant Ciel had ever heard from the man.

"How…are you, Ciel?"

Ciel took a deep breath through his nose, not breaking eye contact as he considered. "…I do not know."

"Could you elaborate?"

Ciel frowned. "No. I am not ready to talk yet. I need something to distract me."

Sebastian looked to be considering for a moment, not at all put off by Ciel's flippancy. His arms remained tight and strong around Ciel's waist. "Are you feeling up to involving yourself once again in the affairs of the rebellion? There is much strategy and planning to discuss, and as it happens, your return has changed the course of the revolution. Your input would be much appreciated."

He blinked. "How has my return altered the course of anything?"

"Why, you _are_ the Queen's Guard Dog. All of England is shocked that Her Majesty imprisoned her own right hand man after he declared that he was _Protestant_. There is an air of confusion that borders on panic, especially in the cities. These are the perfect conditions for an uprising; we must act quickly before the people's doubt is eased once again by Queen Mary."

Ciel nodded. "It is good to know that even my failure succeeded in assisting the cause."

There was a chuckle. "So much so, your imprisonment could hardly be deemed a failure. Many people, prominent people, rose upon hearing the news of your sentence. There is even a rumor that the crown intercepted a letter from a well-known scholar that expressed disappointment that you had not killed the Queen before your arrest. With every new tale of sedition, the cause grows more powerful."

Ciel sat up, summoning all his willpower to the forefront to keep from shivering again. "Well, then there is no time to waste, is there?"

The man propped himself up on his elbows, his smile confident and conspiratorial. "Surely not, indeed. We had better get a move on, shall we?"

* * *

><p>When Ciel stepped up into the carriage to find a quick change of warm clothes, he was met with Tanaka's unreadable expression. He nearly stopped short. But he slowly weaved around his butler, grabbed his belongings, and turned.<p>

"You ought to come to breakfast with the rest of us, Tanaka."

Tanaka's only response was to place a hand on his heart and bow lowly, the tiniest smile curling the edge of his lips. "Of course, young master." If he had been another person, Ciel might have grinned like an idiot.

But he was not some other person. So he sauntered, straight-faced, out of the carriage without another word.

* * *

><p>He felt the routine pull on him as he approached the cooking fire.<p>

After he had returned from Conversion, Ciel had largely thrown off all daily scheduling, only heeding to it when it meant a groundbreaking business deal or realization of the queen's orders. The more freedom he could keep grasped in his greedy fists, the better.

But everyone here was part of the routine Michaelis had established for them. He could see it in their faces – in sharper relief now that he'd spent so much time apart from them all. Ciel stuffed down the nostalgia that threatened to pull his mouth up at the corners; there was no part of him that could deny he'd missed seeing their faces. Being here made his heart beat a little harder.

It was freezing today; he saw Mey-Rin bundled in so many layers she looked like a marshmallow. Finny's eyes were huge and his teeth chattered as he sat folded in on himself. He saw Bard's cigar clamped so tightly in his jaws it was a wonder it didn't snap as he stirred a gigantic cauldron over the flames. He saw Barrymore, originally from a colder region of England, shivering as he shifted on his feet. Foxe sat next to Mey-Rin, holding a steaming bowl to his face as he talked, and looking too stiff from the cold to lift the spoon to his mouth. Ciel himself was wearing three coats, and still shivered as he looked at them all. He wished he could capture the image and keep it.

"What are you grinning at?" Sebastian teased at his side, and Ciel realized there was indeed a soft smile playing on his lips. He fought against the expression.

"Dunno what you're on about, Michaelis."

Sebastian bent a little so they were closer to eye level. "Are you nervous to rejoin them?"

He had been doing this since they woke up – asking after Ciel's well-being every few minutes, acting like Ciel was some helpless little child who had just lost his parents. No, _that_ Ciel was long gone.

"Your irrelevant questions are aggravating me." He shot a look at Michaelis, who looked to be hiding a smirk. He rolled his eyes and walked forward, noticing the hush that immediately passed over the crowd. Everyone stared at him.

"Morning everyone." He nodded in all directions, meeting silent gazes with a hint of a challenge and, he suspected, more affection than he could hide. "Bard, what is for breakfast?"

Bard looked fit to wet himself any second, eyes bulging. "Good – morning! Mr. Ciel. Ah. I – we have a pork stew. Here."

Ciel leaned forward over the cauldron, inhaling the rich scent as if the blonde man three times his size was _not_ sweating bullets in the freezing cold right next to him. He turned, looking Bard in the eye.

"Dish me a bowl, if you could."

Bard hurried to do so. A bowl pushed itself into his hands before he had time to get impatient, and he shot a small smile up at him. "Thank you, Bard."

He turned before Bard's body could snap in half from the nerves, and faced all the soldiers huddled together, staring up at him with eyes he couldn't quite read. He scanned for an open seat and, spotting a familiar face, made his way to the left end of a large log near the center. He lowered himself down onto the cold bark, clutching his breakfast's warmth and shifting to face the man seated next to him.

"Hello, Aberline."

The man's eyes stayed trained on the food in his large hands, but the small quirk of lips made his stomach flutter happily. "You're particularly jovial this morning, Mr. Ciel."

Ciel would have shut off his expression a few months ago at a remark like that. Now, however –

He smirked. "Tch. Nonsense."

Aberline beamed, raising his eyes to look at him. "I am overjoyed to have you back with us, Mr. Ciel."

"It is…nice to have returned. How have you all faired without my inspirational instruction?"

He meant it as a joke, but Aberline's expression was much too sincere. "The camp has not been the same since you left. It has been…dreary, without you here."

Ciel removed his left hand from his bowl to wave away the man's confession. "You are much too sentimental."

Aberline shook his head earnestly, opening his mouth to retort, but someone else beat him to it. Ciel snapped his head to the right.

"He is right, Mr. Ciel sah!" Mey-Rin's shrill statement nodded several agreeing heads all around him. She looked a little nervous, but he saw something in her sharp eyes that warmed him from the inside. "You belong here with us, I reckon. Or we belong with you, yes."

He stared around him, half-expecting to see sniggers and stifled giggles. But everyone was staring at him with wide, achingly honest eyes.

"Thank you for coming back to us, Mr. Ciel." He turned to West, who was looking much more solemn than usual. Ciel held his gaze, but just barely. He lifted a spoonful of stew to his lips, simply for something else to focus on. It tasted much better than he'd expected.

He had come back to them, hadn't he? He swallowed thickly. "You all – mean a lot to me. Of course I returned."

Sad smiles lit on him from all directions, and he wondered for a moment how much they knew. Because there had been _nothing_ certain about his return. He should have died in that prison cell. The thought of it nearly made him choke on his next bite, and it tasted a little bitter.

But he was not dead. And he had to deal with that reality sooner or later. He looked up at them with more resolve as Finny spoke in a watery voice, eyes huge.

"We are sorry, for everything that happened after you left us!"

Ciel blinked. So it seemed they knew at least enough to feel guilt over it. He wasn't ready to tread toward that territory minutes after reuniting with this group. He shook his head and waved his hand through frigid air.

"Do not worry after events that have come and gone."

Finny sniffed, then nodded, if not actually fooled by Ciel's show of nonchalance then at the very least recognizing that he had no wish to talk about it. The air misted under everyone's nose and Ciel curled in on himself as a gust of wind threatened to drag a displeased yelp from him. He gulped down another bite of stew to warm his throat.

Aberline shifted at the edge of his vision. "I believe I speak for all of us here when I say that we missed you greatly, Mr. Ciel."

Ciel looked around at all of them, layered in thick jackets and huddled against approaching winter, and staring at him with the warmest expressions. Ciel allowed himself a small smile.

"I…missed you all, too."

Breakfast receded thus into familiar, fond small talk. He saw Sebastian standing some distance away with a sly grin, watching as conversation got steadily more comfortable. It was a nice way to spend a morning, Ciel had to admit.

* * *

><p>He felt the routine pull at him again, later that day. It whispered <em>strategy meeting<em> in his ear, old forgotten habits making themselves known.

Afternoon sun soaked into the fabric of Michaelis' tent. It had gotten a little warmer since morning, but winter's approach was a force that refused to be ignored. Ciel kept his muscles lightly tensed against the air's gentle nip as he watched Sebastian gather things about the tent. He moved with clean, quick grace. Ciel remained standing in the middle, forcing the man to weave around him.

"How are you?"

Ciel looked at him. Sebastian had his back to him, rummaging for something in a trunk. He sighed.

"I would prefer to discuss something else."

"Oh come now, little one. You just reunited with the other soldiers, who were cursing your name the last time you saw them. Need I call to attention all the things you have experienced in the last twenty-four hours alone?"

Ciel looked down at his shoes. There was a pressure pushing at him from all sides, and it was hard to breathe. He kept his eyes wide open, and swallowed thickly before looking up.

"Sebastian. I cannot talk about these things yet."

The tone seemed to set something off in the man, because red eyes caught his as Michaelis turned around. Sebastian's mouth opened, but it was a moment before he spoke.

"You cannot avoid reality for long, Ciel."

His jaw tensed. He felt like he was choking. He sucked in some air for good measure. "I must. It will kill me. If I think about it. Let me be for a while."

He saw hesitation in Sebastian's face. "Ciel…is it not better to deal with this now? Those among you here – they understand. At breakfast, I fear most of them were waiting for you to break." He looked at him, and then determination hardened in his eyes. "You must _heal_, Ciel. It will be painful, but you _must_ heal."

The ringing in his ears clouded the inside of his skull, and he forced a light glare in Sebastian's direction. "I believe we are late for the strategy meeting, are we not?"

Sebastian blinked, and straightened slowly. A small smile played at his lips, and he lifted a hand to his chest. "Of course. We must be off."

* * *

><p>It was just as he remembered it.<p>

Ciel glanced around himself, spotting the lanterns in the corners, and the mahogany table in the center. An orange glow filled the space like a viscous liquid, and it made everything seem warmer. Sebastian rifled through the stacks of papers and plots and maps littered on and around the table with one hand, the other holding miscellaneous items that he'd gathered from before. Ciel realized something was missing in the tent. His eyes narrowed and he glanced around again. What was it…?

Sebastian moved then, dropping the things in his hands and lifting the table, careful not to rustle the papers atop it. Somehow he kept it aloft with one hand as he bent down to unroll a bright red rug he'd brought into the tent with him, laying it squarely in the center and lowering the table onto it. He straightened and crossed his arms, nodding.

Ciel stared. "How heavy was that table?"

Michaelis shot him a sly grin. "A wee bit."

Ciel opened his mouth, then closed it with a shake of his head. He pulled his gaze away from the man and looked at how the rug's color pulled everything together. He stepped back, and felt something twist inside him when the look of the room perfectly fit the memory of what it used to be. He smiled.

Sebastian stood in front of him with a grin. "What is it, little one?"

Ciel shook his head. "I missed this tent."

Sebastian bent down and his gaze deepened. "I missed _you_."

He blinked and stepped back, the man's deep, soft tone soaking into him dangerously. "Yes, well. When are the others coming?"

Sebastian's smile looked a little sad as he stood to his full height, glancing past Ciel to the entrance. "Now, I believe."

Ciel looked over his own shoulder just as he heard gruff voices, growing in volume. He swallowed, and followed Sebastian over to the table, and stood tall as the first soldiers barreled through the tent flap. He ignored the heart he heard beating in his ears.

He watched as the tent filled with noisy bodies, all joking and yelling and speaking to one another. Different conversations, but he recognized every voice. He ground his teeth and held his chin higher.

He wasn't sure how long he could do this.

He felt warm fingers curl around his hand. He kept his breath steady as Sebastian squeezed his hand, and he felt some of the tension bleed out of him. His head felt less crowded. Then the large hand let go of his, and Ciel focused his vision to see that none of the soldiers had noticed the small exchange.

Ciel took a deep, imperceptible breath as the last people shoved themselves into the tent. He was not a child. He could stand upright before a crowd, and keep from falling apart. His emotions could be dealt with at a later time.

Sebastian stepped forward and lifted his palms into the air, and everyone fell silent. Michaelis turned on that million-watt grin and his voice boomed.

"Welcome, everyone! It is proper to reconvene here often – always in different locations, of course, but this space is where our war will be won. I fear I may not tell you all enough; our victory will be earned by our minds, and our hearts. And this tent is the heart of us, the place where we come together as one body. One mission."

Dozens of loyal eyes trained on Sebastian. Ciel did not realize how heavy their gazes had been until he felt the lightness of their absence.

"Now we all know, that our standing today is not the same as it was a month ago – a week ago, even. Affairs have shifted greatly, and we must adjust accordingly.

"Some time ago, we sent out a select group to retrieve one of our own. He was wrongfully cast from our ranks, and yet he remained faithful to our cause after returning to London. At great personal sacrifice. He was arrested and imprisoned, when he iformed a renowned noble of his Protestant sympathies. The individual under discussion, as we all know, is Ciel Phantomhive."

And then the weight of the eyes was back. Ciel fought the urge to sigh, doing his best to numb the impact of Sebastian's words as they hit the air. But the sad, hot gazes of the soldiers communicated some type of unity, as if Ciel's treatment had served as a personal offence to each of them.

"Each of us have suffered something, something that has brought us together in this forest. In this tent, at this moment. In the future, we may fight and kill alongside one another. We are expected to remain as a spiritual family. We welcome Ciel back into our midst, and cannot adequately express our sorrow for his sufferings. We are with you, Ciel."

Sebastian half-turned back to him now. Every eye in the room was pinned on his face. Ciel wanted to throw up – felt his ears ring painfully and his throat close – then Sebastian shifted, turned more toward him. Ciel caught his eyes, full of strength and depth, and he could hear again. He would be okay – he _had_ to be okay.

Sebastian turned back to the crowd. "Such a dramatic show of support has changed much for the Protestant cause, across all of England. Surely you have caught wind. We must act in accordance."

The soldiers' eyes turned nearly feral. Ciel could not quite follow the thinking behind them, but the menace in Sebastian's voice suggested that things would not turn out kindly for the Catholics.

"So, my fellow warriors." Sebastian walked behind the table as he spoke, subtly pulling Ciel along with him. He watched silently as the man grabbed a pen and a piece of parchment before smiling up at the crowd. "Who has suggestions?"

Hands rose at once, and voices had to be tempered by Sebastian's guiding hands. Barrymore's voice was heard distinctly after a moment of chaos.

"Bartholomew Green!"

West spoke at once. "He's in the – in prison now, how do you expect we'll reach him?"

Sebastian looked thoughtful, and waved the crowd to silence. "I expect if we were to exercise a mass infiltration of major prisons, we would find a large number of Protestants awaiting trial." He wrote the name down, and Ciel watched the soldiers rise with suggestions again.

So they were – planning recruitments? He remembered then what Sebastian had said, about Protestant sympathizers crawling out of the woodwork after Ciel's imprisonment.

"Those blokes from Stratford! What's it –"

"Lyon Cawch and all them?"

"Yeah, and Henry Adlington."

"Good, good." Sebastian nodded as he wrote more names down. "We will all need to discuss methods with which to attract the attention of Protestants in hiding. Contacting those we know by name will be a fairly easy task. The key will be gathering the support of others."

"We could go village to village –"

"–Yes, person to person even –"

Ciel had no clue if his voice would even be heard, but he made his voice firm and loud anyway.

"I have a suggestion."

Every other sound shut off like a switch. It was nearly comical; but as every eye trained on him with reverent intensity, Ciel half-wished he had never spoken. He swallowed, feeling nervous enough to be angry at himself.

"As you all must know, I was employed by Queen Mary to assassinate Protestants in hiding. When I returned, I let as many people escape as I could. I have a large number of names."

The excitement was palpable – he felt his own heart race with it. "Those in hiding may know others, and connecting with these people will lead to a massive increase in our population. I know of an entire army in hiding that would join forces with ours."

Sebastian, normally so well put-together, was practically panting, staring at Ciel like he held the keys to heaven in his fingers. "Another _army_?"

Ciel nodded. "Their commander is a woman named Hannah Annafellows."

Sebastian barked out a delighted laugh as he scribbled the name down. The people in the crowd had faces split into some of the biggest grins he had ever seen. Their elation was contagious, and Ciel felt a smile creeping up on his own lips as he fed Michaelis more names he knew off the top of his head.

"Go through old letters from the Queen and gather all the names you can," Sebastian said with a grin in his direction. Ciel nodded, and then they both turned back to the others. The shouted suggestions resumed, and it was not long before Michaelis had covered a full two feet of parchment with names.

The glow in the air seemed to come from more than just the lanterns in the corner as everyone discussed possible avenues – various people, like Finny and West, suggested holding very private discussions in small villages until rumors spread of where to find their camp. Many suggested some type of black-market press. Mey-Rin and a few others were more radical, opting that they hold a public execution of a Catholic priest to encourage sympathizers to rise up. Ciel was silently fond of the last suggestion.

They were on the heels of something great. There was something sharp, almost electric in the air. Every glance thrown Ciel's way was warm and bright. For a time, he completely forgot about all that had gone wrong in his life over the past few months. Sebastian was solid at his side, and before him lay documents of what he knew would become a part of English history.

They were going to make history. He could feel it.

The meeting stretched well past sunset. It only adjourned when Bard tentatively asked if he could step out to begin preparing supper for everyone else. Sebastian dismissed all the rest, but they trickled out slowly, everyone itching to throw out their last-minute suggestions.

Foxe was the last to go. He looked nervous, pushing a hand through his black hair and staring at Ciel. When Sebastian bent to roll up the parchment, Foxe leaned forward.

"Mr. Ciel, sah – ah, do you reckon I might have a word in private?"

Ciel felt walls go up inside him, and he grappled around for an excuse to say no. He glanced at Sebastian, who – the _dick_ – kept his face firmly absorbed in his notes, purposefully ignoring him. His eyes swam around the tent, desperate for something, until they caught Foxe's concerned look.

"I just wanted to discuss a possible propaganda tool with you. I can of course – just pop the suggestion at the next meeting, if you would prefer."

Ciel cleared his throat and shook his head agitatedly. "No, we can discuss it now." He made his way out of the tent knowing Foxe would follow him. As the dusk hit him and the glow of the tent melted away, he felt a flutter of panic – what if Foxe was just trying to get him alone?

He shook the thought aside before it was even complete – he was _Ciel Phantomhive_. If Foxe started a confrontation, he would win.

He turned once they were a sufficient distance, Foxe's form standing out in sharp relief against the growing darkness of camp. The man was tall and wiry, with sharp cheekbones and dark, handsome eyes. He never talked much. He was decent with a dagger, and threw with good aim. Standing before him, Foxe fidgeted and ran his hand through his dark hair again.

"What do you wish to speak to me about?"

He scratched his nose self-consciously before looking up, and speaking in a very earnest voice.

"For a considerable amount of time – maybe a year, now – I have considered writing a…catalogue, of sorts. A book, more so. Of those who have fallen, or suffered, in the name of Protestantism in England. I wrote for the newspaper, before I went into hiding…and. I believe that it would be good, for us, if the public could read of the horrors that have been inflicted upon the Protestant people. Especially now."

Ciel nodded. "Continue."

"Well, now…now I believe that communicating our level of dedication to the general public would sway the masses. People have died, for this religion. Their stories – ought to be told, I reckon."

He liked to talk with his hands. Ciel considered him. "I approve of the idea. But you easily could have suggested this an hour ago. Why did you request a private audience with me, first?"

Foxe's gaze deepened, and his features got impossibly dark – nearly gaunt.

"I think you know why, Mr. Ciel."

He frowned, and only paused for a second. "No, I am not sure I do. Please, spell it out for me."

Foxe immediately backed up, looking uncomfortable again. He coughed lightly, and seemed to steel himself in front of Ciel before looking at him again.

"Mr. Ciel, I believe that – it is probably safe to say that you have suffered more than anyone else here at the hands of Catholics. Your parents were well-known Protestants, who were both murdered by the Queen's men. And you – you have suffered for us, valiantly. Your degree of faith exceeds that of a vast number of martyrs. And if – if I could include your story, and your family's, in my book, I believe it would grant the material considerably more gravity, and notoriety."

Ciel looked past him, at the trees on the edge of the forest. He took a deep breath.

"You will have to give me time to consider your proposal, Foxe."

Foxe was already nodding furiously, eyes wide and excited. "Very good, sah, thank you so much for your time here."

"Sure." He gave Foxe a look. "Your writing is going to be very dense, isn't it?"

Foxe laughed once, scratching the back of his head. "It tends to be, yes."

Ciel smirked, and brushed lightly past him towards the firelight of camp. He glanced over his shoulder.

"Oh, and Foxe?"

He heard him shift, so he stopped and turned, looking at the dark, nervous, intelligent man as solidly as he could. He pursed his lips.

"Do not be surprised if I say no."

Foxe's eyes looked black with depth, and he nodded in an understanding that was so _complete_ that Ciel's heart panged. He turned his back and walked toward supper, leaving Foxe to do the same at his own pace.

* * *

><p>Ciel stared up at the dark canvas ceiling of Sebastian's tent later that night. Someone had hauled a second cot in at some point, equipped with plenty of quilts and pillows. He had ordered Tanaka to move his things into a tent that seemed to have been designated especially for the butler. He lay on his back, bundled and curled against the cold that had crept back to the forefront as the Protestants had eaten their supper.<p>

Sebastian appeared to be sleeping already, but Ciel figured he was probably awake. He appreciated the space that had been offered to him in the form of a second bed, but he couldn't quite shake off the desire to feel those arms around him again. He had slept very well, last night.

Ciel frowned, taking a quiet breath. He was not entirely sure where he stood with the man – he could guess, but most of his being avoided even thinking about what had happened the night before. He had enough on his plate without grappling with romance as well; he'd deal with _that_ only when he could no longer push it to the side.

But it was too quiet, and without a body next to him Ciel soon found himself grimacing up into the dark, fighting against the noise in his head. He sighed.

"Sebastian."

The answer was instant. "Yes, Ciel?"

He mentally flailed for a conversation starter. "…the strategy meeting went well today."

He heard the smile in Sebastian's voice. "It certainly did. Your contributions will assist us greatly."

"And Foxe is going to write a book. On our efforts."

"Wonderful. Why did he not share his intentions with the rest of us?"

"Because he asked my permission to include a narrative of my experiences. He said – and I think it's ludicrous – that my 'degree of faith' was higher than that of others."

"Why do you think that is ludicrous?"

Ciel blinked. "Because _faith _is not what caused these things to happen to me."

"Ah. But it makes for an effective story nonetheless."

"…I do not see how."

There was a deep chuckle. "Well Ciel, most English citizens will feel sympathy for a young boy who was orphaned, terribly mistreated, and still stood strong against his aggressors in the name of Protestantism. That sounds a lot like faith, does it not? It sheds the Catholics in the worst possible light, I think. Children do not deserve such hardships."

Ciel frowned. "Deserving has nothing to do with it."

"How so?"

Ciel sighed. When he was young, his mother had taught him about justice, and about giving people what they deserved. She had taught him that when one degraded another person, the injustice of it degraded oneself as well. Then someone had come along and torn her face off, listening to her broken screams before stabbing her in the chest.

"One's character does not control reality; no one experiences what they do because they _deserve _it. Life is not a perfect little vacuum of justice."

"Then how do we know what justice is?"

"Justice does not exist. If it did, people would get what they deserved."

Sebastian hummed thoughtfully. "But perhaps, we humans are afflicted with this sensation of justice? While yes, it does not bend reality to its rule, does that mean that justice is an illusion? I believe that it is an inclination of the human spirit."

"Tch. Believe what you want. But I take no stock in it."

He heard the smile in Sebastian's voice. "Perhaps you will come round to my side of thinking one day."

He hesitated. "Sebastian."

"Yes, little one?"

He paused. He forced the words to come out. "Could – could I sleep over there?"

He heard a rustle of blankets, the pad of feet on the ground, and then he felt something touch his face. The urge to flinch melted away at the familiar warmth of Sebastian's large hand. He felt breath whisper-soft, and then lips feathered his jawline delicately.

"I was beginning to fear you would not ask, little one."

The man helped him upright in the dark, and both of them fell onto the other bed in a pile of warm limbs. Sebastian tucked Ciel's head under his chin, and Ciel breathed in the scent of him. He was asleep almost instantly, wrapped tightly in Sebastian's arms.

* * *

><p><strong>Please review, everybody!<strong>


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